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  1. WARNING: This topic contains a lot of original material, even if it is fan-fiction, so it is legally protected by Creative Commons. Unlawful abduction of original material straight from this topic or similar writings by listed authors and project members is illegal. All rights go to their original authors and creators, only thing being claimed here is original material written by the individual that goes by the aliases Iaredios / RC15O5 / Kaiser_Quanah / Tahuzilla, and other authors that are members of the A Rude Awakening project. You have been warned. -----A BIONICLE STRATEGY GAME----- -----AND LORE EXPANSION PROJECT----- (Formerly known as BIONICLE Universalis) Still a Work In Progress! (Including the Topic) Background Hello, I am Iaredios! This is a topic for requesting help for an overhaul modification for the acclaimed Grand Strategy Games, Europa Universalis IV and Crusader Kings II. Now, here are things that I am in need of: --- A Few Graphic Artists, mainly for loading screens and a world map; also flags. Loading screens show important characters (Tahu, un-mutated Pridak, etc.), scenery, marching troops, and battles between armies (Skakdi v. Aternea, Element Lords v. Barraki, and the like), and other things; about 15 or less would be needed. I already have one and am currently working on another. I have already designed some flags, but I could use some assistance with others. The world map. As I am the main developer of this mod, I have decided to take it upon myself to create the world map. I will update my progress as I go. ---Musicians, I need unique music and/or some Nathan Furst BIONICLE-styled music to fit a grand strategy game. 15-20 songs (5-15 minutes each) would be nice for the soundtrack. As this is being done completely free, I am sure it would be okay to use a pre-existing song that you deem to fit BIONICLE, I will be sure to give credit in the read me file and credits (music companies, you have no need to sue me. ). Most of the songs need to be peaceful and non-intrusive, while some songs need to be "epic" but remain true to the atmosphere of the game and not be too distracting. I would recommend listening to the original soundtrack of Europa Universalis IV (and prepare to tune along to Andreas Waldetoft!). ---Coder, I am familiar enough with the game and could probably do this by myself, but a helper wouldn't hurt. This game is easy to mod, its just time excessive (just like the game itself. ). i will be seeking help from ParadoxPlaza when the need arises (and it will). --Discussioneers: I know that is not a real word, but I could some people to just generally talk to about the course/direction of this mod, mainly discussing each faction's flag design (and meaning), cultures, religion (or virtues/beliefs), and locations, as well as organization of history. Really, I would just like a couple of Watsons. --Modification Developers-- Head Developer: - Iaredios Graphic Artists: - Iaredios - Toa Imrukii - Monty Musicians: - Toa Vanson - Madu Cabolo Discussioneers: - scratchR Special thanks go to SPIRIT for letting me use his avatar as a flag, and -Windrider- and Bonesiii for being patient with my many questions and requests. You guys are awesome. . Song ideas and themes (to retain a Bionicle atmosphere, all songs must have at least some synthetic electronic tones, be it electronica, droning, etc. Battle tunes have to have some sort of soundtrack feel. Ask in topic if you have a question): - Nealite Agori use a mixture of Bulgarian, Byzantine, and some Near-Eastern inspiration. Irfan, Ante Diem, and City of the Fallen are good sources of examples, as well as some traditional Medieval Roman music (I have good examples so just ask). Element Lords and Great Beings fall under this. - Luhneahn Agori are primitive and their music should reflect that. Inspiration could be gained from Europa Barbarorum's barbarian music tracks. (And please for the love of God lets not do anything annoying) - Skrall and Jirapa have a European barbaric feel to them, while retaining an organized imperial feel. TES IV: Skyrim (especially with choir and drums) and Conan the Barbarian (1980's) are good examples. Ancient in atmosphere, but also timeless. - Ostonigosa [bone Hunters] draw inspiration from Eurasian Steppes and desert nomads. A mixture of ethnic tunes from these two regions would probably fit best. - Vorox could use like one song, being a mixture of tribal with old world desert tunes. - Matoran draw heavily on a mixture of Maori music, electronica, and modern classical/soundtrack styles. - Barraki is the same as Matoran except with a militaristic and imperial feel. - Makutine (Makuta Cult) is the same as Matoran except sounding more sinister and mysterious Song Teasers: - Neuropolis, by Toa Vanson - Neuropolis is what the agori call Metru Nui (it translates into Brain City). You can imagine Spherus Magna travelers going through the ruins of Metru Nui, or a Matoran remembering the City of Legends in it's glory before the Battle of Bara Magna. - Nealite Market, by Toa Vanson - Otherwise known as 'The Bard', this is a song fit for the daily hustle and bustle of forum or market square in the Greco-Near Eastern-inspired Agori of Greater Neala. - Song Of The Nomads, by N/A - This is a song for the Ostonigosa (or, Bone Hunters). it is a combination of two songs from the Rome: Total War modification, Europa Barbarorum. I must make this clear, I did not make this song, just put the two songs together since they are very alike. A revision of this song could be done to have a more Bionicle feel to it. - Makutine, by Toa Vanson - The theme for the evil cult based on Makuta Teridax, his prophet 'Turaga' Ahkmou. Pronounced as 'mah-koo-tee-nay', the name is of Nealite origin and is their linguistic variation of the word Makuta (obviously). The cult is made up of not only MU races but Spherus Magna races as well, as is reflected in the throat singing by present Ostonigosa culstists. - 'Matoran Battle Song', by Toa Vanson - An absolutely fantastic song with an unfinished name. The people of the Matoran Universe gather together in what appears to be a battle that will be remembered for all of time, and the very survival of the Matoran Universe races hangs in the balance. - 'ARA Electronics Demo', by Madu Cabolo - Great song test that has a very Bionicle-friendly atmosphere as it blends some world music with electronica. Fits the matoran race(s) very well. I would like it if this were extended. Loading Screens: http://tahuzilla.deviantart.com/art/Tserkoura-v-Anonna-497787769 http://tahuzilla.deviantart.com/art/A-Rude-Awakening-Barraki-War-Chamber-concept-art-527208215 Banners: (the top language is modern Agori; ancient Agori is close to that of the Matoran written language. My full alphabet can be found here) -- Great Being Civil War (shows a Great Being departing a space ship with others closely behind him/her, and Marendar approaching the landing ramp) -- Eternal War: Two groups of fluid spirit collectives, Protodermis/Avhagnu and Antidermis/Krahagnu, wage war upon each other across the void-remnant, their material corpses becoming either observable matter (stars, rocks, air, water, etc) or celestial monsters (Lovecraftian horrors). Waging for eons and used by Grunchar to create material things in Existence, the Eternal War between Light and Shadow continues today. The mass of darkness can be seen by the reflective light of the Avhagnu collective. Secret Spirit MAP UPDATE: http://www.brickshelf.com/gallery/Magnetro/A-Rude-Awakening/World-Map/revised_sm_-_small_4_october_2016.png ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ *****UPDATE*****: Modification development is currently on hiatus to develop lore and art. Sorry if this disappoints you*****
  2. >< The storm had passed and the sky was filtered by sepia gold, matching clouds hung low but were no longer dark in wroth. The waters of the ancient sea now calmed like the heart of the ship-wrecked fisher. His once-thought immortal anger had died and been reborn into partial understanding, and plenty of confusion, but overall peace. His body unconscious, he floated among the waves of the grounded sea as his mind floated through the seas of time and space. He saw things he thought impossible. Things many would find as blasphemy. Clouds, both earthly and interstellar flew past him, was well as close stars twinkling and lightning flashing, inhabited aerial oceans between the stars and rippling rainbow ponds, and ground growing and receding and changing color, black and brown did the hard porous stone shift before the untouching tired standing of the fisherman’s soul or mind. Which of the two he did not know, perhaps they were one. Away from the bounds of infinity and upon a large floating rock in the mortal plane, he lived breathless, face-down into the water-world from whence he emerged a little while ago. It was when finally his body approached the beach of the southwest, and when his fingers slid across the wet muddy sand his mind returned from the distant known and unknown, something cracking in his mind. The images flashed before closed eyes, the fantasy of reality. His drowning body close to the murky sea floor of liquid sand, the sea beneath the sea, the earth ready to devour his corpse. His eyes red with the pain of dying and blood vessels pulsing white before his pupils as the monster emerged from the brine. The memories flashed: the beast with skin of living stone and runes of glowing blue and eyes to match, spread out the branching gills on its neck and throat, and spoke to his mind, claiming coming peace to the soul at war. The behemoth put its head under the fallen body, and when it sunk onto a large rune of light between the eyes, the beast opened his prickle-toothed mouth and shouted the name of the corpse-to-be in a voice deep enough to rival the deepest trench. “THASOS” And with the ringing of the powerful shout his brown eyes darted open, and starving lungs pounded so hard that the man flung his head back into an arched neck with hair over his face and gasped like his first breath decades before, the echoes making many a creature take flight before he collapsed. His entire body washed up onto the white beach, his tired hands grasping the clumpy erosion as he attempted to view the land’s horizon and the sky beyond through the curtain of wet dark mane that veiled his sight. What felt like – and probably was – an hour had passed, and he began to finally crawl forward, the weight of exhaustion still tying him back. His green and brown skin tinged in burning from old Solis Magna. He attempted with failure to get up on his feet, three times the charm did the trick and up he went with a steady groan and a chorus of spinal pops. He looked around himself, his view of the world returning as the sepia filter waned and found his blade sheathed by his side, but his trident and the powered mask of his forefathers was missing. Not having the Mask of Mailflesh saddened him, he had grown to rely on this family relic and the loss meant losing a reminder of his father, but perhaps it was for the best and that hatchet be buried. His mind pierced, forcing him to continue. Foot prints, the first of them leveled by the waves, followed Thasos into the semi-arid plains of the New Land he found himself in. He thought some then commented in a parched utterance: And so I finally return to the homeland of the artificial bane of my people: Neateir. “Lead forward then.” In starvation Thasos picked the resources of the camp of his enemies after discovering it, and even crippled them so the devilish Metal Men of the Sea and their warlord Takadox wouldn’t be invading his home of Ketoteir while he was away to appease the beacon that held his leash. He left the light brush and travelled down the beach enjoying the fruits of his labors. Later, he noticed that as he made his way down the beach and eventually docks, none of the fisher-men and sailors recognized him. He had slain many of their lot after they slew many of his own. The Tajunites had over extended their fishing waters and reaped the food of his people, and he defended Ketoteir then too. He touched his scarred, bearded face with a smirk. If only they knew who they walked past, I might actually be overwhelmed by the infuriated thieves. I see now why the mask was lost… Night fell and Thasos stood before the walls of Tajun. He was commanded to go in there, the home of his foes. The walls were not the best, but from what he heard from the sailors and fishers on the beaches and docks, Tajun was ruined decades before in a war against half-giants. Men made of metal and flesh, half-giants? What sort of world was this? Ketoteir had been cut off from the lands to the east for thousands of years and so only some passed word of rumor and news reached his homeland; but many saw the clash of the titans and everyone saw the effects of their battle. Especially the homeland, the Whale Land, the return of the seas and the spread of green made the islands paradisiac, but also brought on new challenges. These thoughts came and went as Thasos found a gutter at the base of the wall, and was able to dislodge the temporary barring before replacing it and skulking about in the moonlit ravine city. Special white-blue fire danced in lanterns held by post and being alike, likewise held by both guardsmen and walking citizens. Much of the population had people like himself, agori of various ethnicities, but also the metal people like the ones who terrorize his homeland, but here they seem more peaceful and ill wanting of harm. Not all are like monsters he has faced. He looked down and sighed, and then looked up and smiled as he snuck through one of the street-levels of the canyon settlement and looked inside of the wall-carved homes that had yet to retire to bed. By the light of the white-blue fires and common orange fires, many a family and friends were laughing, and crying, and eating, and all around enjoying their company. They may be different, but really they were all just like his own people. There were wide ramps with stairs to the side that connect the levels of Tajun, so he took one and exited the white cliff-road before entering the next. Thasos felt the urge to go in a certain direction, admiring the view of the city as the central shallow river at the bottom glittered in Dimmelykt’s moonlight beneath a stretching grail, and continued until the urge stopped in front of a door, and he sighed, and began thinking of ways to explain before eventually and hesitantly knocking on the metal door. The weight in his brain had to be lifted. A heightful agori of sand-blue skin tossed and turned in his bed. He felt the nightmare as if he were there again. It flashed about him, initially in the distance, then up-close until the pale ghost was in his face, the texture of its mask being navigable to the eye lit by the glitter of a red jewel it was so close in proximity. It’s white bandaged hand crept out of the equally pale sleeve and grasped the bumpy forehead of the agori, and with it flashes of a purple crystal in an eastern desert, and metallic rocks in the sky from beyond the clouds floating down towards the ground. Then there was the image of a tall being in a golden robe being visible only by its back as a white light glowed in front of the figure from a pit and a humming grew louder until the man bolted upward in a shower of sweats and shakes to the sound of knocking on his bolted door. The agori breathed deeply, and listened. He was already scared from the vision, but he knew he heard knocking, and so listened for it to come again before letting his paranoia take over. He sat up shirtless on his bed, stiff as a statue, before getting out of bed gently and going to put an undershirt on, his eyes unblinking in doe-eyed fright as his ears concentrated. Suddenly, the knocking happened again. His heart began racing, and the tall man walked over quietly to unsheathe a short sword and hold it ready. He walked out of his room and approached the windowless door, standing outside before it as the knocking came again, this time a little harder. A single hard knock pounded on the door and the resident peeped in fright. A grizzled voice in a slight accent spoke softly but sternly. “I hear you little mouse. Open the door at once, I intend no harm. I need your help.” The resident stood in fear. He felt sincerity in the man’s voice, but his paranoia told him to not open the door. He must have waited too long as another pound sounded on the door. He mustered his strength to speak finally. “If you truly intend no harm, then please stop banging on the door, it doesn’t inspire confidence.” Not to mention it might attract guards “What do you want?” The stranger hesitated, then replied, “I need someone who can read and write, and I was told to come see you”. The resident then lifted a barrier on his door to reveal a peep-hole, and concluded that he was no Skrall. But he seemed kind of wild: He had unkempt hair that was damp, a green and brown face littered with scars, a short beard, and wore ripped up clothing. This guy sure has seen a thing or two, he thought. His curiosity almost got the better of him and almost unlocked the door, but checked himself, readied his sword, and asked another question. It was a bold one, but he thought it couldn’t hurt. “Do you work for any skrall?” The man outside sounded confused and replied, “What? What are Skrall? My patience is running thin and I have a headache, let me in already!” The sand-blue man was dumbfounded by his response. What?! How does he not know what Skrall are? Who is this guy?? There the resident’s curiosity got the better of him and he unlocked the many locks of his door and opened it for the stranger. The first thing the stranger saw was the tired, completely confused face of the man he needed to speak to, and it made him grin. The sand-blue agori asked him in bewilderment with the sword still in his raised arm, “Who the heck are you??” “My name is Thasos: sailor, fisherman, and guardian of Ketoteir. Now get that blade out of my face,” He said and then simply backhanded the sword out of the person’s grasp like he just swatted a fly. Thasos observed the house-dweller: He was taller than he imagined, actually just a thumb taller than himself, had a white undershirt on and long gray underwear, brown wavy hair and a reddish-brown trimmed beard, with darkness around his eyes. Thasos walked into the house without permission and looked around with his head, noticing some displayed artwork and a table filled with papers, before turning it to the side and spoke to the resident, “And what’s your name, mouse?” “It’s… Iaredios…” He replied. He couldn’t believe who had walked into his house, a living legend, more of an infamous one in the city in which he made his home. If Iaredios so inclined, he could get the guard and get reward money for getting an enemy of the city-state. But greed is not his passion and saw it for being only useful for basic needs and wants. He snapped out of his disbelief and described himself, “Hello Thasos, my name is Iaredios, and I am a chronicler. I collect things of historical value and write scrolls pertaining to things of the past and current events. I am guessing this is why you are here?” “Yes”, Thasos simply replied. Iaredios approached him and held out his hand, which Thasos saw and turned around to answer with a shake. The blue man noticed that his newfound guest smelled awful but tried his best to ignore it. “You are far away from home, why in the world are you all the way here in Tajun, at my home, at this ungodly hour?” he said and proceeded with a yawn. “I… I do not know exactly, Yardos. I was blindly led here by a beckoning. I just know that the weight in me needs to be lifted, and to do that it must be written down. You fit the bill I suppose, yes?” “…A ‘beckoning’?” A part of Iaredios questioned the fisherman’s sanity, but his spiritual outlook on the world had him intrigued over the wording. “I guess I do fit. But I must ask if we can do this when the sun rises? It is in the dead of night, man. And my name is Iaredios.” “That's what I said. I guess we can, but at least some of the weight must be lifted immediately, and I will not take no for an answer. The sea beast has cursed me with visions that haunt me and give me mental pain until they are moved. Prepare a blank scroll, scribbler, and tell me when you are ready, and I will pour out to you what comes to the surface of this inner storm.” Iaredios didn’t understand some of what was said but felt like he had little choice in the matter. The use of the word scribbler reminded him of a close encounter with the Skrall in the north, but focused on the task at hand. He closed the door and locked it, and gathered a blank scroll and ink and quill after clearing room on the table. Iaredios went to fetch a white robe and lit the lantern above the table with the white-blue fire used by Tajunites, and sat down. Thasos came over to the table and sat down in one of the spare chairs, and stared into open space as he opened his mind to the expansive library that was forced upon him, and his mind went through the expanses of time and space in the confines that were revealed to him. So he began, and the chronicler wrote with haste…
  3. I wrote this out of sudden inspiration in one night. Hope you all like it. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- BLACK CORONATION A Rude Awakening tale A sizeable crowd stood before him. The man clad in blackened steel stood above his subjects-to-be in sheer height, helmet in absence. Though he was not of the size of a jirapa giant like ol’ Big Tuma, his belonging to the Elite caste of skrall still made him taller than non-Elites. He walked forward betwixt the crowds twain, they kneeling as he approached them. Skrall of both types, even male and female together, knelt in union before him, as did the agori servants of both Nealite breeds (small Kontes and tall Pisiles). He walked confidently without body guards: anyone that posed a serious threat had since been delivered to Greani Ateir in the next life, and even those that wished to challenge him he would welcome with open arms before their swift demise. None did so from either sheer fear or complete respect and allegiance. The only one accompanying him was a scared tall man of sand-blue color, even his height being down-played by the great presence before him. He was only here because his noteworthy skills in chronicling, his existence being a sign of taboo and making him the cause for many a hunt, in-turn causing the man to have paranoia; and now here he is in the wolves den. The truth of the matter is that he was nearby and was forcibly ‘convinced’ to come here as none of the skrall here could read or write, including their new lord. “Make him look good, scribbler”, he was commanded by his captors at blade-point before their arrival. And the chronicler did as prescribed, for his fate was completely in their hands. The bulky man of great prestige walked to the end of the aisle of sentients, where a great door laid shut. He took a deep breath, briefly glared out of the corner of his eyes to what he saw as an abomination before shutting his eyes, and exhaled, thence opening the heavy doors with ease. More people were inside the long building, the genders playing different parts. The women, who all wore hooded robes, stood silent with their heads down and kept them as such until the man of the hour walked past them; the men were all garbed in gears and arms of war, they all bracing their shields and their swords or axes. Everyone said his name thrice, “Stronan, Stronan, Stronan!” With the men having melted to the back of the crowds, the women proceeded to throw violet-blue flower pedals high into the air into the middle aisle as the black-clad champion and the unwanted guest passed by, whilst the men behind the women began to stomp their feet, bang their sword or axe onto their maze-decorated shields, and exhale short howls, this beat of noises slowly getting louder. Even outside, the rhythmic uproar could be heard. Stronan, or Stronius as the Nealites flavored his name, walked with his scarred red-pink face proud, his bearded chin tastefully lifted, and his hairless lips slightly smirking to one corner, conveniently the end away from his scribbler. He finally stopped a few cubits from the stairs, and his only living suitable rival, the champion Branar, approached with a sharp, gold pointed crown of emerald and onyx decor in his hands. Stronan knelt before his scared-strait servile swordsman, causing the whole of the area to mute in complete silence, and Branar carefully placed the jagged crown upon the warlord’s head. When this happened, the chronicler removed himself from the scene, placing himself near it at the front-most of the crowd. The crowned Elite looked up past his new champion, and looked at his throne, cut from black rock in the likeliness of their former-homeland of the now-destroyed Black Spike Mountains. It was decorated with the carvings of the unique torso maze patterns of his dead rivals, symbolically ruling atop their corpses, and many empty patches had been left there for future generations to etch on if they were to conquer similar foes. The throne had pillows installed into it and it was carved in a way to be most comfortable, no-doubt having been in the works for years. His eyes then looked past his throne, and focused on the symbolic stained glass shipped straight from Vulkanus. It contained white cupped hands pressed together at their sides, the symbol for Grunchar the Primordial Potter, displaying his gift to the world, the ancient green Skrall hero and saint, Greani Atier. Greani stood there, helmed shirtless with a mail sleeve and skirt, both hands touching another in their grasp of the lost holy sword, the Arm of Grunchar. Atop Greani’s helmet was a crown, exactly like that of Stronan’s, which made the veteran warrior smile. As Stronius stood up, Branar symbolically knelt before him and bowed his head. Stronan climbed the low staircase, turned around, and with everyone’s eyes glazed at him, sat down upon his throne. At that moment, Branar yelled while still kneeling and closed his eyes, “All of Spherus Magna behold, the King of the Skrall, king Stronan the Strong!” Horns blared thence and the building became alit with rekindled noise, the uproar becoming deafening. The chronicler was obviously displeased with the noise volume, who rolled up what little he had writ up his armpit and plugged his ears with futile fingers, as did follow some of the agori. Stronius raised a single hand, and the place soon died in decibel once more. He spake thus in his deep voice of power, “Branar, arise!”. The man did as such. “Your business with the crown is not finished. Fulfill what you swore, or become of my decor”. In agreement, Branar removed his glove to reveal a scarred hand, and then sliced his thumb up one of the sharp spikes of the crown, blood trailing down the crown and even onto the king’s stolid face. His life by sign of lifeblood was now tied to the crown of the King. A kontes agori slave brought out a cup of Tesarite wine for Branar to put his wound in, which he did as soon as he got out of the way. Stronius then stood from his seat, yelling to all: “What has been achieved here today, is that which has not been achieved in an age. No longer will we Skrall bow to anyone. Our Jirapa giant overlords see their end over the horizon, and the Nealites to the south who have disgraced our honor before by means of Mata Nui now cower before the likes of too many an enemy. The ancient Spirit of the Mountains has returned from under his hiding rock and seeks to enslave us once again. Anyone who is caught seeking to join this false-god will meet their end by my hands. Anyone in-general who crosses me will meet their demise by my grasp, is this understood?” He walked over to the slave that brought Branar the medicinal drink and slew him horribly with his bare hands and sheer strength to serve as an example with a stomping finish, which with that some in the crowd slowly began to stomp in rhythm. Gazing at the pieces and whipping his hand down a few times to get some of the liquid off he looked at the crowd, and said, “You will all then come to find mercy in death by my mighty club and serpent saber if there be even a whiff of transgression, as they are but my instruments and not of my body, my being”. The chronicler was awestruck in fear and disgust by what he had just witnessed, and threw up in his mouth at the realization of what he sees now and that he has been touched upon by carcass's crimson spray. The king turned to him briefly with a japing face of disbelief at how 'weak' the historian hybrid reacted, then back to the crowd. Already the men were beginning to rise in their pounding noise of praise; the younger women were whooping with excitement, while the conquered remnants of the now-powerless, elderly Sisters of the Skrall were merely clapping. The men were chanting in a scary, barbaric rhythm while horns were blown to the beat. Stronius grabbed the cup of bloody wine from Branar and filled his mouth with it. He swished the funny liquid around and then orally poured the wine onto his hands, thence wiping the mess onto a given towel. The towel was thrown at another slave, whom the king then tasked with also feeding the bodily remnants on the floor to a spikkit. Sitting upon his new throne now, Stronan began moving his head to the rhythmic dark uproar of savagery with a closed smile. Later that night, noises of a festival from inside the great hall could be heard from the chronicler’s prison as the preserved heads of the lord's former-rivals were delivered beyond the big doors upon pillows one by one. Apparently, Stronius saw further use of the poor blue man, which meant nothing good. While writing of the events that transpired that day, the man was visited by Branar, the new champion of the fresh king crowned. “Here, I believe I am done. Is it fitting, my lord?” Branar took it from the chronicler’s hands and read it. “Hmm, it is good. ...Too good“, the skrall smirked, “I heard that you enjoyed truth.” “I do sir, but this court has forced my hand”, he replied. "if it is of any consolation, I was planning to write words of accuracy once I was released, but now that doesn't seem to be the case...". “Only by their claw's reach”, Branar began, then opening the gate, “Go now, and spread the truth of this animal despite his wishes, beyond said thing's grasp. These people have replaced a monster with a monster, and thus are fools; and by Greani’s example, all monsters of darkness must perish. Stronan’s day of felling will come, and only then do I want you to return: only upon this I will tell you everything. In the meantime, I am forced to stay here, leashed. There is a rock steed waiting for you outside the prison, and the guards here will not be a problem for you, trust me. Oh, and you'll be needing this, wont you?", the standard skrall of pale-pink pigment spake, holding the hybrid's tattered brown hooded robe, then throwing it at the up penman. "Good bye, Iaredios”. The chronicler said his farewells to the true king of the Skrall, not feeling like he got the full picture, and fled south. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Edited for better wording.
  4. Look now to times prior, Not back to World’s End-Pyre, But when the Helm of Gold Holding a god of old From far off Lunar Sea And submerged faux-victory, Came to our broken planet And became a hero on it. Verily, the one christened Mata Nui, Whose utterance were of no phooey, But rather a forgotten truth Declared to be lies to comparative youth. Yes, ‘tis he of whom I speak now, That mighty hero who had borne the hau- In times past, And now the beetle is his icon cast As well as the opened man Famous now across lands of former-tan. ------- Blue-skinned bound Was our hero found Upon his landing in a sea bare, Minuscule and fraught with scare His new mold crafted from the carapace Of the kin of his new friend in alien space The little thing’s ignorance Concerning the form of the Son of Agnance Would stir familiar love Onto this ruler from above A bond inseparable To touch later rabble. Christened Click was the bug Who by horn’s brush upon god-man’s mug Morphed shield-borne into master’s hand By blessing of Helm’s defensive demand In time to guard from beast-man’s leap to gnaw; Such are the ways of the West Seed of Jarra’Shah. Tackled with claws cutting ‘round shield’s surface That cuts the new-born smooth dermis And stinger tip pierces earthen sin As it fails to poison this king of foreign men. By way of arched shield-blade Did the beast-man’s courage fade As his rear-end sword went way of bloody severance, The first victory of this man of former-reverence. Scurried did the bestial foe Away from crater whence did sand blow. Ripped forth from under bare foot blue Went the stinger slide from faux-carapace and red dew The spray sate the taste of thirstsome desert ground; And now armed did trek the bare blue man bound, Wielding speck-eyed-shield and poison dagger Reaped from feasted remnant-attacker. Stuck to nature’s winding rocky road Lest be swallowed by the shifting brine which flowed The Black-topped mesas with white mineral sprinkle Doth reflect heaven’s torches that twinkle. The ancient sand-scattered flat hills Carved from yonder Lunar Sea which doth give chills Of nostalgia to Banished King of memorial ills. O’, how justice will be sworn-served, Though his banishment is deserved; Such was the pride of Mata Nui Now curse-clad in dermal bluey When before his head could touch the clouds. How he wanted garbed shrouds To shield from sandy blight. When the dangers of the night Could be seen by moons-light It’s form aught with fright Serpentine and clad in fur Long eared and winged ensure That Mata Nui dirtied and bare Took to haste and ran with care To escape the sight of the amphiterre Aloft high in the air Did it miss sight by sound Our hero blue-skinned bound Who hid behind rocky décor Lest fret-feasted upon would be his gore. Once passed, did helm-wielder find sensation, Ignorant was he on the nature of starvation. He fell before boulder and submitted to starving sleep And naught was there a peep Under star-lit blanket-black. ‘Twas by a distant crack Did one’s eye’s flash ajar Swift fell did pupils lock onto afar To find more beast-men. ‘Twas they who made bone-crack their kin White bleached on desert floor. Yesternight’s injured fellow did-so chore With pack of brethren did he bring To seek and scout this Exiled King! Cloudless was the sky And cover was lacking by sight of eye. By the light of Solis’ would they find The helm of his that doth shimmer and shine. So he that was outcast by angel-shadowed Took refuge before old-foe’s abode And bade his time to pounce on they clothed by grime. Wordless speech did his enchanted crown Give to Mata Nui in temporal fortune down. “Hear me, oh holy curse-clad king Let me share memories of paladins that did bring Great battle to ways of darkness! Observe their foes meeting unity's blessedness creed-bound to mercy did they show to thine fallen children, the Masters of Shadow. Such as what I saw with mine own eyes Let them quell your mental cries: Take to inspiration of their example And hence give beast-men a sample Of HERO Mata Nui’s valor And unleashing your divine power!” Thus did flicker before his mortal eyes a life Which did the helm witness such strife. Holy War done in his name in most dire hour A conflict he felt undeserving by his lacking honor But sword-slashed dance did he see his saviors Fighting with greatest gallant behaviors With nature’s great power that did Leap forth from palms did their might fled Forth into many an enemy With mercy was their code’s remedy, Sentience-trace be spared And in this bondage their glory flared. All of this did haste-swift flash Before his eyes and weapon-bound did clash Space of beastly crew and this spirit-old Inspired, now he arose in with stance ever-bold Chin up high was he, and chest puffed-proud Stood the fallen lord blue-bare bound Such was his confidence that seeped from his form That the pack of sand people had their morale torn But recognizing their numbers did they dare Twain ilk slowly paced without scare. Fly did Click from thrown fist towards foe And shifted forth into defensive blow And fell down did they, the seekers of harm Leapt across warming morning earth And punched into hard skin hearth With aim of knocking down this vengeance-seeker But tough was this trekker of the acre How he wished his enemy was weaker! Jaw-split hence cried the horrid shrieker With flame-died iris eye did widen And spike-budded tongue slither from fangs whiten With claw-grasped was King’s arm Blue dermis seeping red via harm By fiend’s sharpened nail By familiar-feel did he seek-strike with tail But in the tradition’s death holding to no avail And in anger was that plan brought to bail Thought made him scrape the neck-skin of that male With tongue and ready to eat the throat of his prey But Mata Nui shoved his armored face into the gaping fray His soul’s home jaw-locked and tongue-scraped So they fell to the pebble-spiked ground And grunt did spake the holder of the crown Harmed was the Helm, and so it’s anger escaped Hence cursed was the nefarious Jarra’dine Mouth skin-sewn forevermore after this day Speechless were they, one more than another With fright did the cursed run to stand over fallen brother Who was on ground from blow by Click shield-formed By muffled screams did he noise and by wet-leg warm Did the kin-folk shriek in horror behold his cursed form! Vengeful victim look to sky crying in fear And begins beastly-clawing at absent lip in hope to pry and tear To let rip-loose some sort of bloody cry And witness did Mata Nui who here could not lie And begged with Holy Helm to reverse such cursed affliction. “Cure this childish fiend of thine set condition!” So he yelled, and wordless did it spake, “By ancient defense from thieving take Do I curse those not destined or merit-worth, Such is my sword-and-shield save my brief birth. “ And so our Hero shout-plead to the air To his voiceless mask with angry demanding flair Though it did confound beast-men already wrought with scare. “Hear me now; henceforth will you reserve your power Lest I specifically call upon it, which they will cower Before awesome glow and flick of wrist Vow now to nay-take my words to twist!” And relinquished did his mask-crown No doubt was there to be found a mental frown For the enchanted artifact that predates its new master, But bows it will, for destiny was achieved before rise of outcaster And his new lord, his true lord, has yet to meet his fate And the Heavens above know it will be profoundly great. Mata Nui walked to the frightened beast-man And by mask’s power and his will did he raise hand To grab arm-limb and raise to face with distance betwixt The being’s twain with sand-person doth squirm and twist. The golden helmed face of the fallen king did so glow As if Great Solis did hence rise from body blue did light show And the face’s fresh skin, like fabric, ripped slowly With widening holes it’s natural mouth revealed duly. Mata Nui dropped the creature and it scurried With both joy and fear far from being body-buried. With kin did they three fade into the horizon And our hero found to be in safe lonesome. Author's Notes: I wrote another short story a prequel to Black Coronation, but i went a little too brutal in a scene. It is important so I can't edit it and thus probably can't put it on BZP (idk). This annoyed me, but i love the potential of Mata Nui's story so I decided to flex some rhyming skills. I hope it is okay, and I might expand on this later. Like other things, this has some references to my A Rude Awakening project.
  5. >< This is the review topic for A Rude Awakening: The Visions of Thasos, as recorded by Iaredios. Use this topic to comment on the stories and histories on this concept project. Background information will also be included on this post and throughout this topic. This is a collection of stories and histories (narrative and non-narrative) from the A Rude Awakening universe that I created, which a main part of the project is to redo the history of the Spherus Magna but using Lego's canon as a rough guide. The contents and subjects of the topic falls under in-universe collection called The Visions of Thasos, as recorded by Iaredios. These were visions given in the modern post-Battle of Bara Magna period to Thasos the barbarian fisherman from Ketoteir (an island or island-chain west of Tajun on the opposite side of the Sea of Liquid Sand) who is of great renown. He encountered the Celestial Monster simply dubbed the Runed Salamander when he got thrown overboard in his personal war against the sea, the ancient god having emerged from the Sea of Liquid Sand's brine base and gave visions to Thasos to shed light to a changing and ignorant world, forgotten histories given with a single touch, and saved his life. Iaredios is a historian who resides in Tajun, and who met Thasos, and as he is literate Iaredios recorded that which Thasos was enlightened with and served a vessel of information that had to be released soon lest he fell to insanity. Thasos did not have all these visions at once but would have them periodically and then describe everything in detail to him as they happened until his mission was fulfilled. His account has angered the temple orders and sacred bands that make up the Kult of Heroes (they worship their divinated heroes like Kertavus, Lhikan, and Th'hrashis), who hold that Time began with the Rise of the Gods of Knowledge (the Great Beings) and have carried traditions of history (such as Greani coming after the Great Beings). This series holds no particular order and the stories and histories will skip around in the bounds of the Mythic Times, which stretches from before recorded history up to the beginning of the Great Being Golden Age, or Paradise as Agori Hero Kultists and Matoran will say. Some of the stories and/or histories will deal with the man known as Greani Ateir, but will not be restricted to that. Here is a rough chart for this. If you notice, the time given for Primeval History is not settled, and may be prone to change. And here is an incomplete map that only has water and coasts as features. It will be colored and detailed further at a later date, and will be prone to geographic updates or plain edits: The in-universe partner collection is called The Revelations of Mata Nui, as recorded by Tarduk. These cover the history of the Age of the Great Beings and might be given their own topic if my interest rises. I have yet to decide if a collection for tales set after the shattering would have their own topic collection or not, but if so these will be called simply Modern History or variants of such, or be split between Post-Shattering and Post-Melding periods. Thasos is a man worthy of note himself and so in the chapters between visions he may give stories about himself or his people of Ketoteir. I must also note here that many of the Greek-inspired names are probably not used by the contemporary subjects they pertain to, that influence belongs to the modern Nealites, so we can assume that they are just translations from older languages into a more modern one. A Wiki is currently in production to better organize information if you need it. Please send all questions to either the review topic or PM me. Some bits of the lore listed under the period covered by the Visions of Thasos was aided to me by BZPower member Toa Imrukii. Thanks for the help dude. And i have to put a disclaimer, this is PG-13. It is probably Rated R unfiltered, but I have edited much of the wording so it should be hopefully be enough to warrant passing the PG-13 rating. There are some things that cannot be changed in meaning but I hope allusions are enough to not warrant action. If something should be reworded Staff members, please let me know. I hope you enjoy the contents here.
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