what where am i
im back here apparently
no idea why
its been so long
whatever i wrote a thing
The Great Spirit Mountains. Weathered chunks of stone, thousands of miles high, jutted out from the planet’s surface. If one stood atop the tallest mountain, a curiously face-shaped mountain known as Mount Mata, and peered down at the vast mountain range around them, then if one squinted they could perhaps barely make out a pair of humanoid forms lying broken around them. Some claimed that these were legendary titans, though those people tended to be rather unhinged to begin with. The layout of the mountains was certainly strange, but certainly not as strange as the idea of beings almost 9 million bio tall. It was at the base of this hostile yet mystical mountain range that a young white-and-red-armored Matoran called Kura found a small hut so familiar to him.
“Master, I’m back!” he called out, shivering as he entered, taking refuge from the cold.
“Welcome.” The old Matoran with pale tan armor smiled, taking a boiling pot off the stove for a moment. His mechanical joints creaked as he joined Kura by the table, pouring some warm tea for the both of them.
“Master, are you sure you don’t want to come live in the city?” Kura asked. “I mean, at your age, being out here alone...”
“I’m fine.” he reassured him. “There’s just something about this place. Perhaps this is where our ancestors came from, way back when Matoran and Agori were physically different species. Besides, it’s peaceful here, at least. There’s no war.”
“Yeah...” Kura stared at the wall. Three strange masks hung on it, each one dull, grey, and broken. The first was a strange shape, almost like an inverted T, that only covered the lower half of the face and little else. Even then, the cheeks of the mask were, by design, full of holes. The other one was a more traditional shape, though its oddity lay in that the face was adorned with a design resembling a humanoid figure standing tall and proud as it stretched out its arms. The final was a quite ornate shape, covered in impossibly intricate designs from what seemed to be all sorts of alien cultures, its pointed eye slits staring back at him with a menacing yet wise glare. “I guess it’s nice here. Everywhere else is so chaotic...”
The old Matoran nodded, sipping his tea. “Tell me, have I told you the legend of the six Toa? Tahu, Gali, Lewa, Kopaka, Pohatu, and Onua?”
“Everyone knows that story.” Kura replied. “They appeared on an island called Okoto to fight an evil called Makuta, right?”
“That’s one version of the tale.” he answered. “I suppose it’s a nice little story, possibly inspired by the other one.”
“There’s another one?”
“Indeed.” the old Matoran answered with a mysterious smile. “A quite similar one, actually, but at the same time, quite different and much longer. It’s hard to say which one is correct, though. Believe one, believe both, or believe neither, the choice is yours.”
“I’m ready.” Kura sat back. “So, what’s this legend?”
The old Matoran reached under the table and produced two ancient stones. A pale smooth stone, a simple face carved into it with a round mouth and three lines on each cheek, and a wicked, jagged black stone, the vague shape of an evil face visible in it. “In the time before time, the Great Spirit Mata Nui descended from the heavens, carrying beings called the Matoran, to an island paradise, or so they were told...”
“Hold on, that’s it?” Kura wondered. “But what happens next? Who killed Tren Krom? Who’s that mystery Great Being? What happened with Marendar? What about Mavrah? And...”
“That’s all that’s known, I’m afraid.” The old Matoran shook his head. “There’s evidence that the Great Being was named Velika, but any further events have been lost to time.”
Kura sighed. “Well, at least it was still a good story while it lasted. I can’t say I liked everything about it, but it was interesting in its own way. One thing bothers me, though. The story mentioned heroes called Toa and Glatorian. If it’s true, then where are they now?”
“Well, the Glatorian just went extinct.” he answered. “Or rather, they were all killed. The Toa, however... While there aren’t any left, I wouldn’t call them dead.” The old Matoran smiled, getting up with a bit of effort and rummaging through a nearby chest. “After all, you know where they come from now, don’t you?” He produced one more artifact, placing it in Kura’s hands.
It was a silvery mask with a powerful-looking design, still emitting a faint light even after billions of years.
“Oh, it’s merely a collectible now.” the old Matoran told him. “But ages ago, it had a name. A name you’ve now heard. Heroes aren’t simply built. They’re found in the hearts of the destined. Even Toa that simply fall from the sky have trials to complete before they can call themselves heroes. Kura, the age of heroes is long past. Destiny’s authority is long gone. Even then, this world still needs saving.”
“Then what is my role?”
“Destiny can no longer order you around. That is something you must find for yourself.”
The next day, Kura stood atop a cliff, overlooking the desert. Explosions rang through the air as the two armies fired on each other, yelling and screaming as they fought. The Matoran and Agori, despite their species having long since converged, never did seem to maintain peace between each other for more than a hundred years or so. “This world really does need a hero...” he muttered to himself. “A Toa.” And with that, he pulled out the mask his master had given him. It was glowing brighter now, shining with a light brighter than a thousand suns. Its silver color was gone, replaced with a brilliant gold. Taking a deep breath, he put on the mask.
He saw something. A vision. A diminutive Matoran with red armor and a blue mask. A tall, strong Toa clad in white and gold. An even larger and stronger version of that same Toa, his armor now partially dark and corrupted. That Toa again, now shrunken down and purified back to his original Toa form, though his armor’s gold had been replaced with silver. All of those figures now turned towards him, speaking with the same voice.
“You don’t have to be a Toa to be a hero.”
The mask clattered to the ground as Kura fell to his knees. “Then what do I do?” he softly whispered, listening to the sounds of the battle below. Finally, he clenched his fist, standing up once more. This age didn’t need a hero to be a warrior. It needed a hero to bring peace. So instead of donning the mask, he held it up high, letting its light shine brighter than ever and cast its rays over the battlefield. The mask had a name once, long ago. The Avohkii. The Mask of Light. And its power was...
As the light of the Avohkii shone onto the wounded soldiers, their rage dissipated, anger and prejudice giving way to inner light. Slowly but surely, the sounds of war began to die down, eventually stopping entirely as everyone laid down their weapons and stared up at the light. In that moment, they were neither Matoran nor Agori. They were the same. Sure, they had disagreements, but those could be resolved with peace and understanding. The war was over.
Far away, from atop the peak of Mount Mata, the old Matoran watched the light shine with a smile. In his hands was one of the masks from his wall, the one with the figure on the face. “You were right after all.” he remarked, almost as if speaking to the mask.