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I: The Banishment The millenary inscriptions poured down from history itself flowed endlessly under their eyes. From just to the night earlier to the furthest and darkest moments of the time before time, not a single year nor month or day of matoran record was ignored, and doomed to oblivion. Every inch of the vast smoke-filled room was covered in the circular hieroglyphs of the matoran alphabet, detailing all that has been: the collective memory of the matoran community, which scholars from all across the island came to study and recall, with an almost religious reverence to history, so strong and faithful to give them the necessary courage to face the many dangers of a long journey. Probing deeper and deeper into the valleys of history, proceeding towards the stairs, the stone pillars, the relics and the altar to the gods at the very bottom of the room, the common round characters to which every matoran is used were progressively replaced by hexagonal ones and then by totally absurd and incomprehensible signs: the writing of the matoran that had been and that were no more, describing the life of an once rich and advanced civilization, long before the matoran escape and settlement on the tropical Mata Nui. Translating these ancient texts passed down through time was a sacred task that brought matoran from all the koros together. Most of the time, however, the translated inscriptions did not make much sense to modern matoran. Takua bit his tongue to stop himself from screaming. The poor quality Huna he wore to enter the temple fell of his backpack with a loud clang. “By the Great Beings! – cried Kodan – Oh, no. No, no, no. We’d better leave now.” “Shh, shh. No one heard us, keep calm.” Takua tried to reassure his po-matoran cousin, albeit uncertain of his own words. Even if they were found, what could happen? The guards would have just scolded them from entering the temple without permission. At night. They were not doing anything forbidden, after all. Kodan’s mask of sonar was pleated in an expression of increasing tension and fear. The po-matoran’s clear blue eyes were tremblingly staring at Takua, looking for trust, for bolstering. From the top of his positive approach to life, of his optimistic view of society and reality, and his jokeful way to solve problems that always managed to save his skin, Takua looked down on his cousin’s fears with mockery, and a smile. “Listen, there is nothing to fear, Kodan. – he encouraged him, serene – Just concentrate on those writings. If you really manage to translate them as you told me, Vakama will praise you. Keep calm and nothing will go wrong.” “I want to believe you, Takua.” “Good boy.” The ta-matoran patted him on the back, several times. Sheesh. He sure wasn’t so dang paranoid when he first proposed this. Takua’s cousin Kodan was way different from him. A bit more fearing of authority and faith, a bit less enterprising and unwary. All things that in the eyes of the community were to commend, he was a model matoran in those terms. But not in Takua’s. To him, someone like Kodan, most of the entire matoran population to be honest, was dreary and unpretentious. People did not know how to have fun, or what fun was, at times. All they did and all they thought about was their daily chores, their dear three virtues, the sense of duty, a life entitled entirely and utterly to work in honor of the Great Spirit. Surely those were times in which most, if not all, forms of entertainment were frowned upon, to say the least. Dangerous infected rahi on the loose, pressing more and more onto the villages borders, preying at each and every matoran’s very life. Matoran were constantly busy, and frightened, and suspicious, and stressed. They carried on praying helplessly to their sleepy god for ultimate salvation, or just for an instant of leisure and relief from a day of fatigue, when they had all the power to create, carve in the hours of daylight, amid unavoidable toils, their own moment of peace and recreation. Instead, they kept building stress inside of them. The po-matoran, at least, had koli. Takua sighed, pitying and cursing himself for his past decision to leave Po-Koro for Ta-Koro. He could not recall what passed through his mind, back then, the reason for such an unreasonable choice. As the two matoran’s shadowy silhouettes danced on the engraved walls, under the frenetic light of the temple’s candles and the firmer one of the duo’s own lighstones, Takua gazed onto his cousin, questioning what he has been asking to himself over and over again for quite a long time: How could someone leave Po-Koro? Nevertheless, Kodan had an ambition, a dream, and regardless that Takua deemed it to be rather weird, he appreciated and praised his cousin for this self-committed goal: to shed light onto the dark past of the matoran, deciphering the inscriptions of the ancient long-dead chroniclers, and become a chronicler himself. Such passion for uncovering the unknown past had Kodan pay visit to Takua very often. Takua did not share this zeal of his. He was attracted, however, by the enchanting tales and myths which old matoran’s history was wrapped of and, moreover, the enigmas concerning the ancient relics housed within the Wall of History. And not to solve them, obviously. Enigmas and riddles would lose all their inebriating influence if they were solved. Such relics were instruments and tools of unknown, long-forgotten origin, configuration and purpose, devised eons ago, memoirs of the glorious civilization that the matoran were, before the shadow of the Great Beast haunted and followed them across their many travels. Or so the Turaga would have the matoran believe. While Kodan’s interest was in facts, in realism and conciseness, leading to the chronicles, Takua’s literary call was that for ghost and adventure stories, built upon the rumors and the speculations this or that relic generated. He was quite good at it, too, making himself a name mostly because of his mythic and fictitious – he insisted on this aspect, as he heard that some of them spread across Ta-Wahi were actually believed to be true – tales, other than, of course, the numerous big and small incidents his playful and naïve attitude saw him involved in. The ta-matoran’s attention was then grabbed by something he immediately desired to grab. At the bottom wall of the temple, there were two massive staircases, mutually symmetrical. From the floor, they brought up, nearly at the maximum height of the Wall of History, until they both stopped abruptly, leading to nowhere, separated, by an empty space wide about the size of a matoran and high roughly about four. Amidst this chasm of holy stone, hanging over the void below, clinging onto the wall by nothing else but two tiny poles, there laid some sort of cane, or staff. Or maybe, an arcane weapon. From afar, Takua could not recognize its colors, although he could judge with a certain degree of confidence that they were rather fair. It did not look like anything more than some very old, unalluring piece of wood coated with a shiny paint or metallic layer, culminating in a razor-edged, elongated and baroque topper vaguely reminiscent of the Turaga of Ice’s staff. Did this stop Takua from wanting to get his hands on it? Of course not. Walking through the pillars and altars presenting to the viewer many forbidden pieces of lost technology, perhaps still functioning, he blamed himself for having never noticed the eerie staff before: it was in plain sight. And if he did notice it, how did he not remember, how could he not be intrigued nor allured? It was so plain and bare, yet it was there, alone, in a reserved and special spot, inaccessible. Anyone with a sense for mysteries and secrets would heed the staff’s ominous call and reach for it instantly. Takua was no matoran to ignore this call. His chestlight flashed more and more rapidly at every rung. “Takua! – panicked Kodan, seeing himself alone for a moment, terribly worried – Get down from there! What are you doing?” “Shut your mouth, you noisy pokawi! I just want to get a closer look…” Given that such a deed was easy. The space between the two staircases was larger than what Takua had hoped it to be, and the lighting there was very poor. If that cane was of some extraordinary significance – and it was, no way it could not be – one would expect it to be well lit. You just don’t put something so special where anyone cane see it, but you don’t provide good lightning for it. Hehe. – Takua was thinking, feeling somewhat proud and very intelligent – One might as well hide it, in that case. Aimlessly and to no use he furiously shook his lightstone in hope it could shed at least a sparkle onto the arcane staff. He could only notice that there was an inscription, in current matoran, he was sure of it, below it, and that it was of some shade of light blue. He ferociously desired to have a Matatu with him, and moaned. Instead, all he had was a powerless Huna, so shoddy its power lasted mere minutes, making the escape from the temple a quite complex task – Coming to think of it, were did I leave it? – and an useless Pakari. Maybe not so useless. Calling forth all his courage and recklessness, and the power of the mask of strength, Takua jumped. His four fingers tried in vain to reach the staff, before safely landing onto the top of the opposite staircase. “Are you crazy? Do you want to break your neck?” cried Kodan angrily, leaving his beloved portion of the wall to stay near his foolish companion. He was more genuinely worried than heated, despite the tone of his words. “Dear Artakha! Will you please be silent?” Takua jumped again. And again, his fingers clasped but thin air. “Takua, stop this. I don’t like where this is going. – his brown hands reached for his yellow mask of sonar, glowing at his will – I…I sense some steps. Someone is near. Please, Takua, we need to go now.” “Hang on just a little more…” The ta-matoran jumped one last time. His blonde feet did not meet solid ground. Both his hands grasped around the handle of the ancient item, and just like the staff itself, with the staff, Takua was hanging several feet off the ground. Now what was I trying to do? He said to himself, not knowing whether to laugh or cry in desperation. “Takua, I don’t know what in Artakha’s name you are trying to do. Whatever it is, stop it. Get down! Give it up!” This time Kodan made no effort to keep his voice low – he plainly screamed. “I...I won’t. I can’t!” It was quite a fall from there, the height was proving to be more frightening than what he thought it could be. His hold was already starting to loosen. If I really have to go down, breaking my legs – he thought – I want to bring this thing with me. Surging once more from the Pakari, Takua pushed and pulled, trying to slack the staff from its place. An horrid, creeping, creaking sound preceded his fall, and Kodan’s yell of agony. The Sacred Fire. A timeless flame which has never stopped burning through the ages, constantly nourished and cared; wherever the ta-matoran – and the whole matoran community with them – were or would go, the light and heat of the Sacred Fire, or a torch lit from its eternal hearth, would accompany their thriving and strife, and spread to the world as the matoran themselves. It was one of the duties of the Turaga of Fire to keep the Sacred Fire alive. It was the stare of the Turaga of Fire that oppressed and crushed the two fools with shame, on their knees before the Turaga’s judgment. The Sacred Fire burning at the centre of Vakama’s home, behind the elderly matoran figure, as well as the loads of candles lit among statuettes representing the Great Spirit, blazing in many colors, created a strange lighting that confused the eyesight. The Turaga’s orange Huna was darker than usual in such conditions. Not that Takua or Kodan could see it, their eyes fixed on the dusty ground by the weight of shame and guilt. The Turaga shook his head silently, staring at the two broken fragments of the Chronicler’s staff – so he called the instrument burning Takua’s curiosity. The tip of Vakama’s Firestaff harmonically and softly, yet ominously, hit the ground, elaborating a dark soundtrack for Takua and Kodan’s impending fate. No other sound but the crackling of the Sacred Fire. The duo’s breath itself seemed to have stopped, and none of them had the courage to even whisper. The three matoran, plus the guards at the Turaga’s door, were as frozen and surrounded by utter silence, if not for the Firestaff beats. Then Vakama started to walk back and forth, and the tingling of the fire emblem hanging around his neck added to the music. And he spoke. “Do you realize how old the Chronicler’s staff is?” No answer came. “It is perhaps the oldest artifact we possess. When our ancestors decided to put down in words we could read the history of our people, the very first chronicler forged this very tool – he pointed at the broken parts with his staff – to carve the very first letters onto the very first Wall of History, which we have been copying and translating restlessly in our travels.” Takua closed his eyes, as if doing so could take him away from that situation. “But it seems like words don’t get through to you, do they, Takua? It seems that having saved me from the skull spiders three years ago somehow gave you the rights to do as you please. I have told you once, and I will tell you again. Do I need to remember that ‘sport’ you invented and promoted, lavasurfing, as you called it, such a dangerous and unorthodox activity? Even among our youngest children, our hope and future, putting their lives in peril! And what about that time you took part in an expedition to the Tren Krom pass, without being member of the excavation team, nearly causing the cave to collapse?” The tremendous recalling seemed to have no end. Takua remained religiously quiet and accepted passively all that the Turaga was scolding him for, for it was just the truth after all. He just wanted to know what his punishment was. Recollecting his past mistakes – even if he did not consider lavasurfing a mistake, not at all – was of no help. “Now, this. What passed through your mind, Takua? And through yours, Kodan. Your father Ekimu won’t be pleased at all. Entering the Wall of History without authorization. At night. Evading the guards, like smugglers, like thieves. For what? Couldn’t you have waited till dawn, like regular scholars?” With the flame-shaped top of his Turaga staff, Vakama turned to Takua and forced to raise his head and look his Turaga in the eyes. “Do not get me wrong, Takua. I appreciate your spirit, and your heart. For having saved me, of course. I might be dead by now if it wasn’t for you. But you have been a nuisance, recently, to me and to the other villagers. Tearing apart this sacred relic, for how irrelevant it may seem to you, is a very grave deed for me, and for our culture.” Takua realized the time has come. Vakama’s sermon had ended and now, he waited silently his sentence, ready to accept it whatever it may take, and knowing that there was no way to avoid it. “I, Turaga Vakama son of Tahnok, successor of Turaga Dume, chief of Ta-Wahi and guide of the ta-matoran, hereby banish you, Takua son of Vohon, from the village of Ta-Koro, to the Ta-Wahi beach.” “What?! Banish!” yelled Takua, standing on his feet. He was ready for everything, sure, but not this. “No way! You can’t banish me, Turaga! You…you can’t! I don’t deserve this punishment for…for breaking an old stick! I won’t…” “On your knees, villager! – shouted one of the guards, striking Takua on the legs with the bottom of his spear, and then on his back, forcing him to kiss the dust of the floor – And watch your mouth. It’s your Turaga you’re talking to.” “Easy, guard.” Vakama calmed his man. “Turaga Vakama… – Takua whispered, daring to glance but at the Turaga’s feet, and at the train of his royal cape, decorated with the fire symbol, repeated countlessly inside small circles – Banished…for how long?” “Don’t see in banishment such a grave punishment, you will see that this is quite mild. You are just no longer allowed to enter Ta-Koro, until you prove to me and to your fellow villagers your good heart and that fun is not all you care about. Or you can seek fortune elsewhere.” “But, Turaga, please…not the Ta-Wahi beach! I…I hate the smell, and it’s tremendously cold there at night!” Kodan and Vakama could not believe their ears. Takua still had the heart to joke. “Why…why not the Tren Krom pass? At least it’s always cold. I’m begging you, Turaga.” “I’m sorry, Takua. As your Turaga, even in banishment I must be assured of your well-being, and the beach is the safest place to stay at the moment. Once you are there, you are free to choose your destiny.” “What-what about my cousin? – screamed then Takua in one last rush, trying immediately to prove his ‘good heart’, and in a honest way – He didn’t do anything bad, it was me who broke the staff and I made him stay ev-” “Don’t listen to him, Turaga Vakama. – Kodan interrupted, showing even more courage and honesty than his fire cousin – It was my decision to sneak into the first place. I deserve the same punishment.” “Enough. – said Vakama firmly, raising his free hand – Do not cover each other. You are both guilty. And Kodan, don’t be stupid. You are no ta-matoran neither a ta-wahian, I have limited powers over you. However, Takua: since he was host at your home, he shall be your host in banishment as well. Free to return under the watch of Turaga Onewa whenever he prefers, of course, and face whatever judgment he will deem right. Now, leave.”
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Greetings, BZPower community. Let's say obvious things first. This is the review topic for my very first "epic", given that I do not like to have it called this way. The first on this forum, at least. And the first in english. The interests section of my profile is empty, but I will tell you now: I write. A lot. I dream of becoming a professional writer one day. I have already completed a novel, am working on other two (one of which is co-authored), and many short stories. All of this in italian of course. Since I am italian (well, how unexpected). I have been thinking about a Bionicle novel for quite some time now, and had a very precise idea of a total re-imagining of the G1 universe, already before Bionicle's return. Then something changed. I received inspiration. A massive surge of inspiration. The original project I had in mind? Completeley scrapped (I still have the notes for it, anyway). I was so dang inspired that I began writing on this new 'novel' right away, even when I should be working on my other works. So, here we are. It'll be interesting to develop a novel in english rather than in italian. And because of this, I do not assure that what I write is grammatically or sintaxically correct. Feel free...more free than ever to point out mistakes of the sort. What else. Oh, right. I do not know the rate at which I'll be updating this. In general I have plenty of free time (unless I find a job these days, but I don't have many hopes for this...) and, for the moment, I have the second chapter ready (in mind, still not written) and part of the third. And this is it. The epic/novel/whatever you want to call it
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Wooo, Cayne (my avatar) and Chrom reached support level S. They so cute together. (Even if I still wish we could do same-sex romancing...). I'm only on chapter six, too lol. (And keep trying to fight this champion-to-recruit who has level five Outrealm units who... are not... cannot be... level... 5...)
