Nuju Metru

IC: Though his eyes had adjusted somewhat, the motionless wall of glowing blue sigils that was the Abettor still made Ishi's eyes water to look at. The senseless arrangements of familiar letters there were still blinding, and still almost illegible among the ricocheting luminescence in the tunnel. It was easier for Ishi to focus his gaze on his sandwich. The Abettor's empty eyes seemed to watch him as he started to eat; the Kanohi Kakama that the behemoth had cycled into place upon Ishi's arrival - bizarre and small-looking as it was situated within the Abettor's ton-drum chest - was fixed in his direction. Could the Abettor actually see, as Ishi saw his sandwich, or did it rely on other methods of sense? Ishi realized this was something nobody had ever figured out. As the deep, metallic voice of the Abettor boomed forth, though, Ishi's curiosity was forgotten. "We do not eat," the Abettor stated. "Why are you here."

IC: Nihi was rich, and it made her a little uncomfortable. Before she'd left the Chojo's terrace, one of Yumiwa's servants had given Nihi a small sack, stating that the contents therein should be used by Nihi to purchase attire for the Chojo's upcoming party. Nihi, still a little dazed then by her conversation with Yumiwa, had nodded dumbly, thanked the servant, and started to head down; only a few levels lower had she realized what exactly she held. Struck by a wave of curiosity, stopping in a niche of the main staircase, Nihi had opened the sack and her jaw had dropped at the sight of its contents. In the little bag had been more money than Nihi had ever seen in her life: a few dozen crystal dragons, all, judging by the sliver of metal encased within, of the highest denomination. And the servant had given the money to her with as much ado as if it'd been a piece of fruit! The way the royalty lived continued to astonish Nihi. Over the next few days, she'd had passing thoughts several times about saving some of the clothing money for herself, but had dismissed the idea quickly every time it'd floated unbidden into her head. It wouldn't have been honorable to have misused the Chojo's gift; and besides, if anyone would be able to spot a marginally less-expensive (and therefore, shameful) garment, it would be the crowd Nihi would mingle with at the party. She resolved each time to spend all the money, if for no other reason other than that it'd be gone from her mind. As she traversed the Sado street under the afternoon sun, and the bag of dragons clinked in her hand, Nihi couldn't help but remember how else she could be using the money. She quelled her temptation at once. She was on a mission; go to the Plangori artisan whose address had been written hastily on a note inside the bag, and buy her attire. The party was very soon: Nihi had been worried about buying her clothes too long before the event, for fear of accidentally ruining them before their crucial debut. But as she wove her way through the Markets - already cause for some distress; she pointedly avoided looking at the stall upon which she'd earlier given her tirade - and the Plangori's workshop came into view, Nihi realized that she'd made a worse mistake: procrastination. She'd never shopped for rich clothes before; how could she have known that today would be the worst time to buy? There was a short line out the door of the workshop, and by the way the would-be customers stood, it seemed like they'd been waiting in place for a while. Some had servants or shadows to fan and feed them while they shifted back and forth on their feet; these Dasaka and Datsue were already robed in luxurious fabrics. Naked of upper-class attire, Nihi felt suddenly bashful, even though none of the others in line paid her any special attention. They probably assumed she was someone's servant, picking up a garment in her master's stead. This imagination made Nihi feel strangely self-conscious. Bashfully, the money-purse seeming ever less like it belonged in her hand, Nihi joined the end of the queue.

Are there any Plangori artisans in Sado open for interaction?

INVITING YOUR OPINIONS

Hello, all. The purpose of this new (and hopefully temporary) topic is pretty simple: I want to hear what you, my lovely BZPRPG players, think about the state of the game at this point in time. Despite my recent distance from the BZPRPG (alas, life!), I've heard and felt the rumblings of discontent lately, and feel that a space for an open conversation (rather than a behind-closed-doors one, as often happens to our detriment in our Skype community) is very valuable, both as a platform upon which you guys can order your thoughts, and a way for me to best receive them. Just a few guidelines: BE POLITE. You are allowed - encouraged - to debate, but I the debate must be civil. Any rudeness will result in a deleted post; excess rudeness from the crowd at large will result in a deleted topic, and some pretty savage executive decisions. I'm not in a lenient mood about this.BE HONEST. This isn't helpful to anyone if you're sugarcoating things so far as to make them tasteless. That isn't to say you should be mean; don't be mean. Just call things like you see them.DO NOT TARGET INDIVIDUALS. Unless the individual happens to me, I'd really like for people not to state issues that they have with specific players or staff members, here. It's incredibly difficult for anyone not to take such directed criticism personally, after all, and this topic is for me to get a feeling of the reception of the game as a whole, not the performances of its component people. But please, feel free to critique the performance of the staff team in general - we can always use your constructive feedback.DEFINE PROBLEMS. The more simply and eloquently you can do this, the better.PROPOSE SOLUTIONS. It's easy to point out flaws; it's harder to design patches. Though I won't - and, most likely, can't - implement every change that everyone proposes here, all ideas are welcomed and in some way inspiring on the path towards a better game.Thank you guys for taking the time I hope you'll take to be thoughtful and truthful. I appreciate your help. Nuju

There's a very simple solution to your question: DON'T THINK ABOUT TIME IN THE BZPRPG When you do, everything gets messy. Putting figures on things doesn't do anyone any good, so as a general rule, we avoid them like the plague. If your question is about the relative ages of Mata Nui and Kentoku society, I can say this much: the islands are the same age.

This is the ultimate showdown of ultimate destiny!

IC: Miniscule cinders haphazardly rode the warm breezes. A hunched shape perched on a flat roof, indefinite against the mottled ochre Ta-Wahi sky, seemed the haughty conglomeration of these ashes; indefinite and particular, the shadow on the roof could have been made out of the fire-dust of the air. Like a pile of sand suffering the wind, the shape melted here and there; but unlike a pile of sand, the cinder-entity righted itself constantly, reclaiming and replacing its fizzy crumbs even as more rebelled against such control. From his vantage point above Ta-Koro’s central plaza, Zaktan recuperated and watched. The sonic attack that’d distracted and annoyed Avak and Thok had cut barbarically into Zaktan’s being, as such assaults always did; not for the first time, he cursed his unique composition’s most reliable weakness. A crippled cloud, Zaktan had flitted desperately away from the source of the shrill noise, escaping unceremoniously to achingly reform where he now crouched. The screech had died shortly thereafter; green-tinted smoke billowing up from where the Lavapool had once been had indicated that Jitter was to thank for Zaktan’s respite. The street below Zaktan was hectic, but not frenzied. Under the Piraka’s red gaze, Matoran and Toa ran to and fro, conveying and obeying orders, trying to save their wares and themselves simultaneously. Yet despite the hyperactivity, order prevailed. The people of Ta-Koro had been through fire (of several types) more often than most Mata Nuians; baptized by emergency, they operated together like a blazing clock. The degree of calmness with which the Ta-Koronans conducted themselves may have been admirable to some; Zaktan, meanwhile, only read the deepest writing on the palimpsest. In the Koro’s compliance to its military figures, Zaktan saw exploitable obedience to authority, conformity that could have been effortlessly harnessed. The people of this city had all the efficiency – and all the intelligence – of cogs. It was easy to use a well-oiled machine. The Piraka were a rusty, defunct contraption, but Zaktan had the skill to manipulate them just as easily. Even in the face of the others’ annoying rebellion earlier, he hadn’t lost control of the situation; though he’d been forced to show his hand, Zaktan had used the revelation of the Antidermis to his advantage, because it’d given him precedent to come to Ta-Koro. Zaktan had long since decided that he wanted Vezok as his pawn, and only Vezok; this endeavor into Ta-Koro both allowed Zaktan to reclaim his perfect instrument and presented him with a clean way to abandon his other tools, which would have only gotten in his way. Already, the others were scattered; now, all Zaktan had to do was find Vezok, and leave without drawing the rest of the Piraka away from their inane distractions, which would be easy. Not for the first time, Zaktan acknowledged his intelligence with satisfaction. Movement in Zaktan’s peripheral vision complicated his scheme. A Toa, of indeterminate hue when silhouetted by the amber sky, leapt from rooftop to rooftop towards Zaktan. He bounded tremendously in the air, flipping and tacking off stone ledges and sloped roofs without losing much forward momentum. When the gaps were too large for even the Toa’s acrobatic leaps to bridge, one of his hands would shoot out and, with remarkable speed, create a frozen ramp in midair to catch his body, off of which he’d then launch himself anew. Not even Reidak could have mistaken this being for anything but a Toa of Ice. Strapped to the Toa’s back, Zaktan noticed the glint of a pair of weapons. Knowing that he’d been spotted, and eager to best this Toa quickly, Zaktan rose from his crouch and stood to face the oncoming would-be hero. As the Toa of Ice came closer, he slowed, catching himself a final time with a long, gently angled ice bridge that, despite the muggy Ta-Koro air, didn’t appear to be melting. A shoulder-roll absorbed the impact of the Toa’s landing; as he rose, his steps quickly lost momentum until he was languorously swaggering straight towards the waiting Zaktan. Beneath the Toa’s feet, the top layer of frost on the bridge transformed, turning from flaky to plushy, white to rouge; soon enough, the fresh ground on which the Toa walked had become a red carpet. A self-confident smirk was affixed to the Toa’s face, and as he advanced, he reached his hands over his shoulders to draw the weapons there. Zaktan, not in a mood for theatrics, had loaded a Jitter Sphere in his Zamor Launcher. He wasted no time in dispatching it.

It's always interesting and exciting to see the famous, enigmatic crystal flamberge realized visually... However, I think the blade appears rather short in this work, probably because the perspective you were shooting for wasn't realized obviously enough. On the other hand, I feel like the back calf tapers off a bit too dramatically, given its position and the width of the other one. If these were stylistic choices - which they easily could have been; I'm commenting from a more realistic standpoint - then disregard my notes. Cool work, keep growing the BZPRPG with art!

A little reminder, from the guidelines post in this topic:

What do the Piraka like... here's a list, based off my intimate personal experience with the gang: Destroying peopleDestroying placesDestroying thingsDestroying societiesBickeringBeing the bossThinking they're smartThinking other people/Piraka are stupidLaughing at aforementioned stupidityPunsSlapstick comedyMiscellaneous wisecracksRebellionAnarchyWeaponsBullyingExclusivityPowerWealthNotorietyOthers' miseryEach others' misery

The Mask of Sensory Aptitude would be supremely useful in the Dark Walk, I didn't even think of that... One wouldn't be able to tell exactly where everything/anything in the entire nexus of tunnels was - that'd be ridiculous - but you'd certainly have a huge edge in finding things through sound over someone not wearing the mask. Someone with the Mask of Sensory aptitude could even employ an unsophisticated version of echolocation, maybe whistling or something, and discerning how far away the sound bounced. I think it'd be a very valuable mask to have on this Dark Walk quest. As for the Wiki update, props Kughii! Even though the Wiki isn't my domain, I love seeing it updated (I use it sometimes!) and this'll be helpful.

What EW says is correct; also, like he pointed out above, each Willhammer has a particular style and flavor to their mental entry. Even though every Willhammer is trained basically in the same way at the Yards, their styles end up wholly discrete; no two Willhammers "feel" the same in someone else's head. This is because every thinking being has a distinct Feel on the mental plane. Like psionic DNA, or a sense of the soul, the Feel is something unique and immediately identifiable about that person. This is how Menti can tell who is communicating to them through Ideatalk, and how they may be able to vaguely sense other Menti around them. For Willhammers, the art of untraceable manipulation is twofold: on the one hand, Willhammers must be excellent arguers, cunning logicians, and possess a great wisdom about people and their desires (and, even better, a preexisting intimate understanding of their targets); on the other, Willhammers must become proficient in hiding their feel from the attention of their victims. This can be achieved a number of ways - distraction, brute force, a subtle takeover of the mind - but it requires great skill to do successfully, especially upon exit. It's generally easier for a Willhammer to batter their way into a victim's inner mind (if that victim isn't also a Willhammer) and force them to obey than to perform an Inception-esque mind trick on that same victim. Another thing that Willhammers must be wary of is that once a being has "Felt" another being, they will always associate the Feel with that being. So, if a Willhammer is careless, and makes her Feel conspicuous during a period in someone else's mind, she can be easily identified by the victim of their entry at a later time, if the two cross paths.

In which I like to pretend my characters are important.

IC: Nihi tried not to feel the stare on the back of her head. … The ring-dancer couldn’t amuse Kuno, because he was not alone. … Ever since the day at the Markets when her hotheadedness had gotten the better of her, Nihi hadn't been able to traverse the streets of Sado comfortably in the daytime. The remarks she'd made on that day from the rooftop of a stall had been heard by quite a crowd of locals; now, wherever she went, Nihi was bound to pass by at least one member of her Markets audience (or a friend of one, or a servant of one, and they’d doubtless have been told who she was) while running her daily errands. Though she walked quickly with her head down, and made a habit of choosing circuitous and less-traveled routes, Sado was overcrowded – it had been for generations – so Nihi could never avoid people, and subsequently, attention, altogether. Today, as she passed a throng of Dashi here, a couple of chattering Datsue there, even a Dasaka walking purposefully in the opposite direction, she drew their gazes. The Dashi immediately began to converse in low tones; the Datsue traded snide remarks and chortles as they carried on; the Dasaka stopped in her tracks and turned to watch Nihi pass. Nihi tried not to feel the stare on the back of her head. The Dasaka muttered something to her nearby friend; the friend probably nodded. Nihi swallowed her desire to scream something at the rude duo for staring, because it’d do her no good. The deed was already done; with her muttering, the Dasaka had created another starer, another future prompt for Nihi’s shame. Shouting would only enhance Nihi’s notoriety. That kind of outburst was to blame for her current infamy. By incessantly replaying her day at the Markets, Nihi couldn’t help but keep it fresh in her mind. After having made her inflammatory remarks on top of the stall, as the Chojo and countless others of great stature had ridiculed Nihi’s position and reminded her of her place – how, she always despaired, had she thought it’d be a good idea to speak at all – she had, immobilized and incapacitated by the verbal assault of those more important than she, hardly heard the ensuing debate. There’d followed a period of indeterminate length when Nihi had been acutely aware of her incapacity to move or speak, and in the timeless paralysis she had at once been transported to the last time she’d been unwillingly, helplessly motionless in the face of catastrophe. Nihi felt like the level ground she stood on had started to tip forward, so far on the diagonal that it would spill her into a void. She was acutely aware of her own heartbeat, the shrill ring in her ears, and the sound of her own breathing. How different it was from her sister’s erratic rasps. Eventually, though, the heat of embarrassment had thawed Nihi’s frozen body. Shakily, the debate echoing meaninglessly in her ears, she’d clambered down from the stall rooftop, wanting to disappear. But Nihi had found herself surrounded by a throng of Dasaka that’d just had their eyes and ears fixed on her; disappearing, she’d recognized, would be impossible. Even though the crowd had given her a wide berth as she’d reached the ground, Nihi had felt suddenly claustrophobic surrounded by it. She’d wanted to hit them, wanted to stab her fingers into their stupid, staring eyes, but that hadn’t been an option. Red in the face, Nihi had been forced instead to shove her way through the thick circle, jostling aside Dasaka as she’d held back her muggy tears. Detachedly, Nihi had noted as she departed that the Chojo’s gaze had followed her progress, and that Kuno’s servant had vanished. As she’d passed close to a neighboring stall, Nihi had accidentally knocked over a crate of fruit. In her memory, Nihi saw the crate fly gently, captured in elongated time, towards her sister. It spun in the air as though one of its corners had been softly tapped. Then the crate splintered against Nachi. The debate in the Markets had continued in Nihi’s absence, but she hadn’t cared. She’d run away. … The debate in the Markets hadn’t gone well; thus, Kuno’s second scheme had been foiled. Had the Fursic First Son been alone (that is to say, alone but for me; a stone, even in dimness, cannot be without its shadow), the ring-dance might have distracted him from brooding on his latest defeat. Usually, art could placate Kuno; he had good taste, and the subtleties of the delicacies he had the duty to enjoy were not lost on him. Ring-dance was one such delicacy, an entertainment meant for the powerful. On a wide wooden stage before Kuno, the ring-dancer – a Dasaka with a form like running water, without any garb to weigh her down save a close-hanging amethyst pendant dangling from her neck – executed her extremely athletic art without visible effort, which was just as it should have been. I’d hired her on recommendation, and she was performing to the expected caliber. The dancer’s strong technique was evident; her face was set in a long-developed mask of elegant slackness, designed by the ancestral masters to belie the fluid tension that flowed through her body. As the ring, large enough for the dancer to stand inside with her arms holding its edge, twirled and rolled around the stage, each maneuver she executed was inseparable from the next. One second, she flipped the flat plane of the narrow, flexible ring in a dizzying series of traveling turns that were hardly audible on the ground; the next, she was spread-eagled and taut inside the ring while it meandered to rest like a dropped coin, getting within a hands-width of the ground on its oscillation before she undulated her body and spun her circle gradually back into verticality. Just a moment later, she held onto the top of the ring with only her legs, and her arms were spread beneath her as she compelled her ring, using Mindarm powers, smoothly off the ground and into an airborne flip; she ended sitting inside the floating ring for just an instant before resuming the dance. It was an impressive display, but Kuno was in no temper to see it. The ring-dancer couldn’t amuse Kuno, because he was not alone. His mother had arrived at the Imperial Palace earlier that day, and he had no good news for her. Toroshu Nera, holding herself as far upright as she could in her advanced age, sat in a backless chair next to her son, who was similarly seated. Kuno’s shoulders, hidden under his ruby cloak, were stiff, and his hands were clasped in his lap. The sunlight from the wide window caught in his most elaborate set of crystal armor, decorated with sparse lines of metal. Nera, garbed in an opulent red robe lined by small rubies that clinked together as she moved, watched the ring-dancer attentively; her face, drawn by countless years of Fursic leadership and, consequently, the evasion of countless (and several deserved) allegations, was hawkish even when she judged art. She gestured for me, and I poured juice into her smooth ceramic cup as she spoke to her son. Nera’s voice didn’t match her age; it cut through the air with vigor that did not match her withered appearance. “She is skillful,” Nera noted, pointing at the ring-dancer, who had just completed a particularly graceful sequence. Even issuing a compliment, Nera’s voice was like a whip. “There are no performers like this on Kozu. The Rora keeps her riches close.” Kuno met his mother’s eye for a moment, and nodded noncommittally, returning his gaze to the ring-dancer in a semblance of interest. Nera knew her son too well; she moved her eyes to him and kept them there. “It is a shame that I must make the voyage to Sado to enjoy artists like these,” she went on, her tone lacerating the wordless atmosphere. “It is also a shame that I must make the voyage to Sado to see my son, for he never visits me.” “Mother,” Kuno assured, “Seeing you is my greatest pleasure.” “Indeed,” Nera replied. “And yet you do not return to Kozu unless I order you back.” “I am very busy,” Kuno answered diplomatically. “Regrettably, I do not have time to come home. The tasks you assign me occupy me ful—” “Ah,” Nera interrupted, clearly unconvinced. She sipped her juice, puckered up her face, and held out the cup for me to retrieve. I took it away. “Kuno, you have bad taste. And no, Ikori, I would not prefer something else.” I returned the tray of liquids to its attendant table as Nera’s words lashed her captive son again. “You are occupied, of course… always the obedient son. Tell me, then, Kuno: have you made any progress?” Kuno raised his own cup to his lips and sipped as slowly as he dared. The ring-dancer continued her sweeping ballet, unaware of the world around her. … Unawareness was a miracle that only came with the nighttime. Nihi could sometimes forget herself during the peace that the night afforded her. It was nice to forget things, she’d decided, but forgetting was difficult, because she couldn’t make a conscious effort to do it; forgetfulness had to kiss her of its own volition, and she only felt its sacred lips in the serenity of the night. If the healing level of the Gardens had been open during the evening, Nihi would have been able to avoid the daytime almost altogether. Since that wasn’t the case, though, she was forced to endure the day. At last, several condemning recognitions after the Dasaka and her friend, Nihi arrived at her destination, a stone-paved plaza. Above and beyond the square, towering like hovering jewels, the crystalline layers of the Gardens were draped in greenery that caught the Kentoku sun. There wasn’t much movement on those walkways; maybe it was too hot of a day for many nobles to visit their exclusive park. A few birds flitted here and there across the trees, though; Nihi, looking up from the sidewalk as she customarily did before proceeding across the square, caught sight of a gleaming Janu among them. The flash of gorgeous plumage cut through Nihi’s melancholy, and she smiled; they were beautiful birds. She forced herself to lower her gaze to the ground level tier of the gardens, which was vastly more active than the upper ones. There was always a sizable bustle around the healing centers; the injured and sick came for treatment, and their families and friends only added to the traffic. Nihi, one more Dasaka, wouldn’t be noticed among them. She wove her way through the pillars, potted ferns, and moving bodies with practiced skill, until she reached a certain doorway. Outside the doorway was a plump Dashi behind a desk, writing something on a piece of paper. As Nihi approached, the Dashi looked up. Blessedly, she didn’t yet associate Nihi with the debate at the Markets; Nihi was sure that sooner or later, though, the kind Dashi would hear about it and stare at Nihi with the rest of the Imperial Palace. As Nihi approached, the Dashi put aside her paper and stylus and, bowing politely, smiled at her. “Hello, Nihi,” the Dashi said. “Good to see you as always. How can I help you today?” “Good afternoon, Gysha,” Nihi said, returning the bow. “I’m here to see my sister.” … “Even my sister, inefficient as she is, would have done something,” Nera scowled to herself, absently picking up and examining one of several round-polished crystal orbs in the bowl on the table between her and the oblivious ring-dancer. “My son, however, tells me he has done nothing.” Kuno had stood when his mother had risen from her seat; but even with his feet habitually planted and his posture habitually perfect he looked diminutive beside his Datsue mother. Long years of power were traceable in the shapes of Nera’s small being. The furrow in her brow, the increased creases about her mouth, and her retreat into showy introspection were all telltale signs of Nera’s understated contempt. Kuno read these signs as easily as words carved on stone, and I read Kuno with similar effortlessness. As Nera toyed with the decorative balls, he clasped and unclasped his hands before him, shifted his weight from foot to foot, frowned slightly. The penitence and apprehension he may have felt before were forgotten in the face of his mother’s insults. She was excellent at making him angry. “Ikori,” Nera summoned, not looking away from the sphere that she now clutched before her face like the skull of an enemy. “Yes, ma’am?” I asked, bowing even though she did not see me. “Dismiss the ring-dancer,” Nera commanded. “I wish to speak to my son alone.” “Of course, ma’am,” I replied. I approached the wooden stage, and knocked on it twice. The ring-dancer, so concentrated in her choreography, was only receptive to signs like these; she was trained to let go of most outside sights and noises, as they could disrupt her rhythm. The knocking was an exception; the wooden rap summoned the dancer and her ring back to the ground. She stopped its rotation, and held the ring upright as she bowed to the two nobles; then, shouldering it, she made her way towards the door. The sudden halt of the dance, though, had left the ring-dancer dizzy; as she walked towards the exit, her faltering feet had none of the grace that they’d possessed during the performance. She had already been paid, but I followed her, prepared to leave my master and his mother alone. I was about to shut the door behind me when Kuno’s voice stopped me short. “Ikori,” Kuno ordered. “Stay here.” “Ikori,” Nera said, pinning Kuno with my name as I stood motionless in the doorway. “You may leave my son and I alone.” “I would like for Ikori to stay here,” Kuno countered, his voice slow and firm. “And I would like for her to go,” his mother snapped back, swiveling to him. “Your great pardon, ma’am,” I interjected as diplomatically as I could, bowing once more. “I deeply respect your request, but I am bound by mortal oath to obey my master’s orders and fulfill his wishes. If he would like me to stay, I must stay. I apologize. ” “Ah,” Nera repeated, only this time she’d bared her teeth in the semblance of a lupine smile. She deliberately set down the crystal ball, and continued to address her son across the table. “Yes, quite so… Here, Kuno, is a servant who knows her place. Here is a servant who is unafraid to follow her orders, even when tackling adversity. Here is a servant who does not settle for failure. Ikori honors her family and her oaths by her actions.” “Thank you, ma’am,” I responded courteously. I took a step back into the room, and made again to shut the door. Kuno nodded at me; this was his highest praise. “Wait just a moment, Ikori,” Nera said, holding up a finger. She took a long exhale, as if to collect herself. To Kuno, this could have just as easily been the gathering of storm clouds. Nera’s next sentences were precise. “Kuno, I am your Toroshu, your superior, and your mother. You are my son, and therefore you are my servant. You must learn to obey me. Dismiss Ikori.” Kuno’s visage was as artfully blank as the ring-dancer’s had been. His resentment only made itself evident in the temperature of his reply. “Ikori, you may leave me alone with Toroshu Nera.” I bowed to Kuno and departed the room, closing the door at last behind me. However, I pressed my ear against it. Kuno would not be deprived his shadow. … The plant cast dappled shadows in its corner of the room; the shade of its stems wove an elegant network of looping silhouettes on the wall. No longer as cleanly groomed as it’d been on the day Nihi had bought it – for she didn’t trust herself to do anything more than water it with every visit – the shrub’s green leaves looked brown by the amber light of the falling afternoon. On its table in the corner, the plant looked no different than it had during her last visit. Safe in its little pot in its bed of Ikian artisanal pebbles, the plant was much easier for Nihi to focus on than the flower in the other bed in the room. Tucked beneath her sheets unnervingly cleanly from the waist down, Nachi sat up in her cot. She didn’t really sit, though, because she didn’t support herself. None of her uprightness had been Nachi’s own doing; the Healers had propped her up with cushions and a bamboo backrest, and secured her lower half with the covers, so that she’d be easier to feed. Nihi knew this because she’d seen it happen several times; every instance, when the Healers altered her sister’s positioning with practiced deftness, and subsequently gave Nachi mashed foods spoonful by spoonful, Nihi felt like she just was in their way. But she was disappointed to have missed arriving in time for Nachi’s meal, today; Nihi could sometimes imagine a little spark returned to her sister’s eyes at the taste of the mush. Nachi’s hands were limp at her sides as they lay atop the covers, and her blue fingers were soft and flaccid as dead slugs. Her head lolled against the pillow, back and a little to the side facing the window, so that as Nihi entered the room, Nachi’s face wasn’t directed at her. The sound of Nihi’s entrance drew no reaction from Nachi, but Nihi hadn’t expected one. Nihi closed the door behind her, and then looked at the plant. She held the back of her neck in her hands and bounced a little in her knees as she gave its untamed foliage more of her attention than it deserved. At last, Nihi tore her eyes away from the pattern of shades on the wall, and looked at her sister. Nachi didn’t look back, of course. Nihi spoke, and was able to summon a smile. “Hey, Nachi,” she beamed. “It’s good to see you. I hope your meal was nice today. I would have come sooner, but there were some people who slowed me down. They were rude, and I can hate them, but I can’t blame them for staring. I already told you what happened, and I know we would have stared, if it’d been someone else. Gysha told me you ate well today, that you swallowed everything perfectly. I’m proud of you.” Nachi’s head slumped a little; she’d slipped a bit on her pillow. Nihi rubbed the back of her neck more, and her smile dropped. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I was inconsiderate—let me help you.” She approached the bed, and hesitated for just a moment before she reached it. She’d looked at how the sun gleamed off her sister’s forearm; it was so much slimmer than it’d been before Nachi’s incident. Even though Nihi had become acquainted to her sister’s new shape, sometimes under stark light its transformation could still affect her. Nevertheless, Nihi soldiered on. “Let’s free you up a little, hm?” she proposed. Nihi tugged a bit on either side of the covers, giving Nachi ease enough to slide down into a deeper recline. As she did so, Nihi removed cushion by cushion, and finally took the bamboo support from behind her sister. However, she removed it too quickly, and Nachi’s head thumped lightly against the bed, still faced towards the window. Nihi, in her startled shame, almost fell next to her sister, but regained her balance as she waved the bamboo support out behind her. Nihi carefully set this down after a flailing moment and started at once to rub her sister’s head. It moved unresistingly at the neck under her strokes. “I’m so sorry,” Nihi grimaced to herself as she continued petting Nachi. “Still not good at this, am I? Sorry.” She bent down with her free hand and plucked a pillow from the discarded pile on the floor. Nihi sat perpendicularly to the line of Nachi’s body and, turning to her sister with the pillow on her lap, gently lifted and repositioned Nachi’s head so that she could slide the pillow beneath it. As Nihi held Nachi’s head, she glanced at its uncomprehending eyes. As always, they stared at unseen patterns in the air. Nachi’s eyes were open again, facing the right way, now. They stared dolefully past Nihi. Nihi turned her sister’s limp head towards herself, but Nachi still looked past her, as though she wasn’t there. The firelight danced in her eyes beside a new companion: ambivalent madness. Nihi forced herself not to try and riddle reason from Nachi’s senseless gaze. She lowered Nachi’s head onto the pillow, and let its aimless vision take in the ceiling. Nachi looked back at the plant, but she covered Nachi’s hand with her own as she went on speaking. “It’s funny,” Nihi continued, trying to rediscover her smile; if she could smile, she could be happy. “My mind keeps going back to Kuno. Before you say anything—” She stuttered, but picked up her thread right away. “I know you’ll think that’s because he’s a male, and yes, I’ll concede that he’s one of just two I’ve ever talked to… and you were there the first time, remember how we giggled?” There the grin was. Nihi’s mouth pulled up of its own accord at the memory, and as she recalled the story, she squeezed on the unmoving digits beneath her own; they didn’t respond, but they were warm. “We made such cool dudes of ourselves, that time,” Nihi chuckled, half-turning to Nachi before going on. “But no, I don’t mean I keep going back to Kuno like that. Even though he… well, I already told you about that, too, and I know if you get me started on talking about it, I won’t actually get to what I wanted to say! What did I want to say…? Ugh, you’re terrible!” Nihi threw her sister a mock-frustrated glance, and then her eyebrows puckered. “Hm. Okay. Right. I said keep going back to Kuno, but I mean that I keep going back to what he said to me. He told me exactly what I wanted to hear, and he’s a Fursic. No need to connect the dots, I know I was manipulated; I just don’t know why.” Nachi kept staring at the ceiling. Nihi loved when her sister listened to her. … “Listen to me, Kuno,” Nera said, her voice carrying through the wooden door. “You have failed again, and I grow very tired of your failures.” “Mothe—” Kuno started. “You will address me as ‘Toroshu’ until you learn respect,” Nera condemned. “I respect you,” Kuno assured. “I disagree,” Nera sniped. “You do not follow my orders. You do not execute the tasks I assign you. And you do not address me respectfully even immediately after I instruct you to.” There was the sound of something heavy falling to earth, and the crack of crystal-on-crystal. “The tasks you assign me are difficult!” Kuno shouted, raising his voice for the first time, hoarse angst coloring his words. “The-tasks-you-assign-me-are-difficult, Toroshu!” Nera dominated. There was a second hefty noise, and a restrained, male grunt. “Difficulty, pah,” she continued icily. “No game is difficult if you understand its rules and its pieces. That’s how you cheat, how you win.” “The Rora’s court is not a simple game,” Kuno said, before hastily tacking on a “Toroshu.” “Of course it is, Kuno,” Nera instructed. “Power is power. Those that wish to remain isolated simply do so because they feel assured in their power here. The alliances and counter-alliances that cloud your vision are trifles that are forgotten in the face of the right opportunities.” “I have tried to present them with opportunities, Toroshu. None have taken my bait.” “Of course they have not: the bait comes from you. These politicians are stupid, but they can see the wires on simple lures. You are heavy-handed; you’ve always been heavy-handed. Your ineffective attempt in the Markets was, characteristically, heavy-handed. Enlighten me: how did you imagine one low-level Menti could change the popular opinion of the Rora’s city with her tirades of guileless hatred?” “She had no affiliations to our family, Toroshu; there were no strings to be seen. I decided that she was a safe choice, but beyond that, the Menti I used was passionate and physically striking. I thought her a suitable candidate for stirring something in the populace.” “’Passionate…’ ‘Physically striking…’ ‘Stirring,’” Nera listed languorously, her voice still bladed. “I wish that I didn’t know better than to believe that you found this Menti attractive. Don’t make that face at me, Kuno, I’m not naïve.” “I am arranged to be united with the Chojo,” Kuno cited flatly. “At my command,” Nera qualified. “And at the Chojo’s dismay, I hear. I would be dismayed as well, knowing the sort of male you are.” My attention was drawn by a noise from my side of the door: footsteps, approaching around the corner. I immediately withdrew my ear from the doorway, and stood straight beside it as one of the Rora’s couriers approached. In her hand, plucked from a clinking bag she wore over her shoulder, was a little stick of crystal. She handed it to me, and we exchanged bows. As she left the way she’d come, I read the inscription on the tablet. I knocked twice on the wooden door, and the heated conversation inside halted. “Master Kuno,” I called. “A message for you, from the Chojo.” A few seconds later, the door opened. It was Nera, not Kuno, who took the crystal-engraved message from me. She read its inscription at arm’s length, and then turned back inside, passing it to her son as he made his way towards me. “A party, Kuno,” she announced grandly, a wan smile stretching her wrinkled face. “Use it to your advantage; make me proud of you for once.”

Trust me guys, this thing Tyler is running is gonna be cool.

A little teaser I've been itching to show you guys for a while...

IC: “I wonder: how many of these could you stuff in your mouth at once?” “They shouldn’t go in my mouth. They should go beneath my feet.” “I beg to differ, dear Reidak. That is to say – and, as much as it pains me to disagree with someone of such monumental musculature and stupidity, I must – they’re too delectable to belong anywhere other than on the tongue. Look. See?” “I’m not going to watch you… You’re disgusting.” “You’re right, I shouldn’t have slurped that one down so loudly… Some of us actually have better manners than that. Come on; stuff them in your mouth.” “They’re wiggling.” “So?” “I dare you.” “Dares are meaningless, Thok.” “Have it your way. Hakann was able to squish sixteen in his gob, when I dared him… without swallowing. He’s been bragging about it all day.” “…Give me the box.” “Knew you’d come around. Okay, I’ll keep count.” “Sixteen. I can beat that.” “Your mouth may not be as naturally fat as Hakann’s, but I don’t doubt your resolve. Go.” “Mmmt’s Mmmvmmtsmmh.” “Don’t talk with your mouth full. I only counted sixteen… One more… Hakann! Come in here!” “Is he doing it?” “Sixteen. So far.” “Mmmvmmtsmmh!” “And they’re still alive?” “Wouldn’t have had it any other way.” “I almost can’t believe he actually did it.” “Hmm, whmmm mhnn…” “You’re seeing it with your own eyes. Pay up, Hakann.” “That’s the last time I bet against Reidak’s stupidi—euch! Reidak! Owch! Thok, get them off me!” “Can’t. The little teeth really latch—” Thok’s leering cackle, Reidak’s muffled chortles, and Hakann’s grunts were all cut short by the opening of the bungalow door. A bright trapezoid of sun joined the little streaks of light that always peeked through the ramshackle walls of the Piraka’s hideout, mercilessly banishing the disheveled sitting room’s formerly dim atmosphere. The sudden illumination in the lounge elicited miniscule screams from the fat maggots that’d sprayed all over Hakann’s abdomen when Reidak had thrown their box at him, causing the grubs to loose their hold on Hakann. They fell to earth, bulbous black eyes smarting, and took refuge in the darkest spots they could find (most of which were under the couch). The three Skakdi, meanwhile, squinted towards the flickering silhouette in the doorway. Zaktan strode duck-footed into the bungalow, hunched more than usual by the tires of travel, but far from robbed of his tyrannical aura. As usual, his snakelike face was unreadable; were those miniscule twitches about his mouth – one instant, he was infinitesimally grimacing, the next, subtly smiling – indicative of his mood, or were they merely symptomatic of his unique composition? It was impossible to tell; Zaktan’s glowing eyes, perceivable to the other Piraka even against the blinding backdrop of the sky, gave no clues. One of his clawed hands held something small, discreetly hid it from view; the other fist clutched, much more remarkably, his golden three-bladed scissor. The weapon, in particular, was an unwelcome sight. Hakann was first to speak. “Our glorious leader returns,” he cooed maliciously, standing from his singed wicker chair and roughly flicking a few especially tenacious maggots from his stomach as Zaktan slapped shut the door behind him. Hakann gave Zaktan a mockingly deep bow, complete with extravagant flourish of the hands. “Welcome back, oh… insubstantial one.” Reidak, who had instinctively adopted a crouched battle stance when the door was opened, had by now unceremoniously spat his mouthful of chewed-up larvae onto the floor. As he slowly straightened, the black Skakdi’s eyes did not leave Zaktan. “Where were you,” Reidak asked, making the inquiry into a statement. “Yes!” Thok chimed in, remaining pointedly seated on the couch. “Tell us where you were, Zaktan… what exploits you undertook, what mountains you climbed, what civilizations you decimated, we’re fascinated to hear all about your – what shall we call it – your journey of self-discovery.” Thok’s arms were spread over the top of the couch, and his feet were crossed casually over the back of a silent, shaking Matoran crouched on hands and knees. Zaktan hardly spared this unwilling footstool a glance, but Thok nevertheless noticed his gaze and, without looking away from Zaktan, promptly gave the Matoran a sharp kick to the ribs, sending the little being tumbling across the floor. Hastily, the Matoran – who wore several fresh-looking bruises and cuts – scrambled to his feet and stood as still as he could, still quivering, hardly daring to breathe. Thok crossed his legs again and lifted a hand to gesture at the Matoran. “Like it?” Thok solicited. “New pet. Found him far from home, without a collar… Poor thing needed a home, so the boys and I figured it was our civic duty to adopt. We’ve decided to call him – among other things, of course, names for when he’s naughty – Zakk.” The other two Piraka chuckled lowly; Zaktan didn’t visibly react. Thok, sensing leeway, pressed on, his icy grin widening in the face of Zaktan’s illegible countenance. “The similarity to your name didn’t at all occur to us when we named Zakk here,” Thok jabbed happily. “But oh, what a funny coincidence it’s turned out to be! Look how small he is. Look how he waddles. Look how he… flinches. Zakk. Juice.” At Thok’s order, the Matoran that’d been forcibly baptized as Zakk shot off like a coiled spring towards the adjacent room, tripping twice in his haste to get there: once on the leg of an overturned table, and once on a dirty-brown foot that caught him by the shin in the doorway. As Zakk fell, landing without uttering even a grunt, his tripper’s head poked around the side of the doorway. “Always quiet,” Avak added as he joined the other Piraka, a waxen smile stretching his wide mouth. “We taught him that trick pretty early.” Zaktan maintained silence, but now his ruby eyes lazily followed the enslaved Matoran. Zakk emerged into the room again with two coconuts; he carried them as carefully and quickly as he could, depositing one each in Thok’s and Hakann’s waiting palms. “Bringing me a better version of whatever Thok gets was the second lesson I made sure Zakk here knew,” Hakann grinned smugly, holding his coconut in one hand for a contemplative moment before chucking it with a shrug at the wall of the bungalow. “Doesn’t matter if I wanted it or not.” Reidak growled at Zakk as the Matoran scurried past, savage satisfaction spreading on his face when Zakk almost jumped out of his skin. The other three Piraka laughed, too, imitating the flinching movement in turn and propelling one another further into fits of mirth. Zaktan’s face contorted momentarily into something very ugly; the four Skakdi around him, occupied by their merriment, didn’t notice. “It’s the Jitter that really does it,” Avak informed Zaktan with a humored, professorial air as he wiped his eyes. “Glorious nightmares… When Zakk misbehaves, he knows what’s coming.” “Your pet has been trained well,” Zaktan noted cooly, speaking for the first time since reentering the bungalow. The fictitious nonchalance in his hissing, distinctly multifaceted voice shriveled any vestigial guffaws in the group; even Zakk, unacquainted with the ramifications of Zaktan’s façade of calm, shuddered at the eerie buzzing. Zaktan addressed the others with breezy arrogance; the venom beneath his words was evident by its concealment. “It knows the consequences of disrespect.” “That’s right,” Thok replied as he extracted himself from the couch. The languid posing of before was gone; suddenly, flipped like a switch, Thok was brittle and biting as ice. His grin froze sinisterly in place. Taking cue from Thok, something in his compatriots changed, too. Avak folded his arms; Hakann’s brow darkened; Reidak’s stare was downright predatory. Zaktan received their drastically shifted energy with palpable scorn. He bared his teeth with the dispassion of a python, and the Protodites in his face melted and righted themselves with nauseating rhythm. One by one, and despite his shorter stature, he met the gazes of the other Skakdi with naked disdain. “Perhaps I should learn from you,” Zaktan said. “Perhaps my little pets need to be trained with a firmer hand.” The four other Piraka exchanged meaningful looks, and almost as one, their heads turned back to face Zaktan. Their square jaws were set in resentment, in anger and, in Hakann’s case, in brazen defiance. The Skakdi of Fire stepped closer into Zaktan, and when he spoke, it was without his signature sardonic syrup. “I am no pet of yours,” he stated. “You are a fool, and soon you’ll be a dead one.” “Hakann, I’ll confess myself disappointed,” Zaktan sneered back, approaching the mutinous Skakdi until they stood almost nose-to-nose. Hakann growled like a wildcat, and Zaktan hissed softly. The fingers of Zaktan’s scissor undulated slowly by his side. “I’ve come to expect more creative threats from you,” he said. “Hakann, for once, is right,” Reidak snarled, drawing closer to the standoff. “Your time is done.” “While you were away, we talked,” Avak added, licking his lips. “Incredible as it may seem, Zaktan, the others and I discovered that we could all agree on something: we’d prefer your company if you were deceased.” “In unity is strength,” Thok agreed, simpering through his bared teeth. “Wow, gee, I’ve really learned something today!” “You sound like a Toa,” Avak remarked under raised eyebrows. “And you sound like an imbecile,” Thok retorted, rolling his eyes as his voice dropped back to its normal octave. “Of course I sounded like a Toa, that was the point, don’t you think I—” “Here’s what I think—” “Oh, you think now? How novel—” “Unified front,” Hakann rumbled, his fiery eyes remaining fixed on Zaktan’s alien ones. Zaktan glared back, and his hand clenched tighter around its hidden object. Unnoticed by the Piraka, Zakk crept as quietly as he could towards the door. “Right,” Avak apologized, though not before trading offensive gestures with Thok. “Right… Proceeding according to plan. Prison time!” Almost as soon as Avak had gleefully said this, an invisible orb of force came into being around Zaktan. Zaktan, as though he’d sensed what was coming, had instants before become a cloud of Protodites and darted laterally, but his evasive transformation occurred too late; the orb had coalesced at the speed of thought, and as Zaktan tried to soar through its unexpectedly and immediately realized surface, the force-bubble bounced him back into itself and vibrated at a piercing frequency. A submarine porthole in one of the walls shattered, as did a few of Hakann’s collection of mirrors in the corner. Hakann, Thok, Reidak and Zakk (who had almost made it to the bungalow door) all grabbed their ears and doubled over, and Avak almost lost his focus on maintaining the bubble; the corporeal beings’ suffering, though, was small compared to that of the insubstantial entity among them. The penetrating, shriek-gong of the bubble attacked the entirety of Zaktan’s cloud of Protodites simultaneously, fracturing him into millions of discrete particles moving in millions of different ways. The whirling swarm, excruciatingly revoked of its internal reason, emitted a wrenching cry equal parts livid swarm of bees and tortured Skakdi. One bout of this agony was enough for Zaktan to learn. Though the dark green cloud of his being was moving in constant flux, struggling to regain self-control and identity after the debilitating sonic attack, it hovered more or less in place, and as far from the edges of the bubble as it could. The other Piraka, after the ringing had cleared from their ears, straightened again and, seeing Zaktan’s swarm trapped, whooped with victory. They (aside from Avak, who was too busy maintaining his specialized prison to do much of anything) passed one another high fives. Zakk tried to use the Piraka’s celebration to make good his escape, but as he slunk along the wall, Reidak caught sight of him. The burly Skakdi took hold of the Matoran by the midriff and tossed him with a grunt at the far wall of the room. Zakk hit with a thud and slid down to the ground. Reidak didn’t bother watching Zakk’s arc; he, like the others, surveyed Zaktan instead. “It worked,” Thok acknowledged. “For once, Avak, you’ve made something that really works… Bravo.” Avak didn’t rise to the jibe – he was too consumed by the preservation of the orb to say anything – but he grimaced, clearly tempted to give Thok a piece of mind or a piece of his fist. Thok reveled in his impunity. “I’m so proud that you’ve finally become useful—” “Shut up,” Reidak snorted, popping his knuckles. “We’ve got him trapped. Now we need to decide how to kill him.” “I bet fire would do it,” Hakann crooned. “I’d love to hear Zaktan crackle.” He collected a fat glob of saliva behind his teeth and spat it masterfully at the surface of Zaktan’s sphere; the spit fizzled there, producing a softer – but no less prickly – version of the first orb noise. Hakann and the others winced; Zaktan’s swarm flared in renewed disarray and fury. “Killing me would be unwise,” buzzed millions of almost perfectly aligned voices from within the orb. Zaktan’s voice was entropy, even more disconcertingly bizarre than normal; perhaps this was why the other Piraka recognized no panic in it. “I really don’t see a downside,” Thok considered, stroking his chin demurely. “Pro: you’d be gone… Pro: no more need for mosquito nets… Pro: I’d get a chance to perfect my crocodile tears at the memorial… Pro: it’d be so amusing.” His smile crystallized. “Unless, of course, you were talking to Hakann individually, in which case I’d agree with you. Hakann, killing Zaktan would be unwise, since I called first dibs on him. Don’t want to get on my bad side, do you?” “We never discussed a dibs system,” Hakann sniffed. “We didn’t,” Thok nodded earnestly. “…Until right now. And I just called first dibs. I disembowel and dismember him; you get to play with his dust. Fair? Fair.” “You tickle me, Thok,” Hakann oozed. “You really do. Such impertinence—” “You’re the impertinent one, you want to violate the sacred dibs system—” “Shut up,” Reidak said for the second time, urgently. “Look at that.” He was pointing not at Zaktan, but below him. On the floor beneath and apart from the orb was a little article that caught the fractured light coming through the wall of the bungalow. It had fallen from Zaktan’s hand upon his disintegration a minute before, clinking unnoticed to earth at the same time as Avak had formed the sonic bubble. It was a small vial, hexagonal and full of a meandering green-black fluid that was both gaseous and liquid. The others stared at it; even Avak risked giving the floor a glance. The following seconds of shocked silence drew Zakk’s attention, too; from the back of the couch behind which he’d been quivering, the Matoran joined his oppressors in peering cautiously at the vial. He’d never seen anything like it, but the Piraka were all acquainted perfectly well with the substance inside. “Antidermis,” Zaktan hissed, and the satisfaction in his horde voice was unmistakable. “Unless you set me free, you will never understand what this vial means.” “Doesn’t matter,” Reidak decided. “I’d rather have you dead.” He started to tramp purposefully towards the vial. “Stop,” Thok ordered. For once, his voice was without guise or guile; probably out of shock, Reidak halted and whipped around to face him. The grin Thok routinely wore was absent from his mouth. “Despite myself,” the Skakdi of Ice glowered, “I’m interested.” “I don’t care,” Reidak said. He lifted a clawed foot over the little vial on the floor. The end of a shoddily coiled rope hanging on the wall of the bungalow shot like an arrow at Reidak’s neck. At great speed and with superb force, the rope coiled about his throat, subsequently tugging him violently back towards the rest of itself as it coiled down and down his body. Reidak, caught off-guard, was only still for a moment; he started to struggle against the rope, but the more he jerked, the more tenaciously he was held, squeezed, suffocated. Thok’s eyes were icicles catching the sun; he moved his gaze up and down and in circles, and the rope followed, slamming Reidak against pieces of furniture and surfaces of the bungalow. “Thok!” Hakann bellowed. “Let him go!” “I’d… rather… not,” Thok moaned distractedly, his face a mask of barbaric glee. Reidak gasped as a coil of rope tightened around his trachea, and his legs flailed about, knocking over anything they encountered. Zakk, wide-eyed with fright, narrowly avoided being struck by a particularly powerful kick, and hurriedly took stock of the chaotic room. Thok was fixated on choking the thrashing Reidak; Avak fought not to lose his own focus as he kept Zaktan imprisoned; Zaktan, within his bubble, chuckled like a hive of malignant bees; Hakann howled bestially and, with barely a running start, tackled Thok. Zakk knew an opportunity when he saw one. As fast as he could, throwing caution to the wind, the Matoran shot towards the door, hitting the outside of Zaktan’s bubble prison en route. The shrill ringing made something in his ear pop at such close proximity. Zakk yelped, but didn’t stop. He crashed desperately into the door, forced it open, and sprinted as far away from the bungalow as he possibly could. None of the Piraka noticed their former pet escape; the reverberation of the prison orb cowed them. Thok’s and Avak’s concentrations were both broken by the shrieking chime; they, along with Hakann and Reidak, fell to the ground, faces screwed up tight in sharp discomfort. Again, Zaktan’s whirling cloud was shattered, and his excruciated cry was almost as terrible as the noise that’d caused it. Had Zaktan recovered more quickly from the prison’s dying sound, he might have flitted away before Avak, screaming a profanity as he noticed his creation’s absence, quickly renewed its existence around him. Reidak, tearing the limp rope from around his neck, prowled towards Thok with murder in his fingers, but Hakann stood pointedly between them; his boiling blood was incentive enough for Reidak and Thok to maintain their distance. They all joined Avak in glowered up at Zaktan. “Ah, we’re all finally ready to listen to each other,” Zaktan derided, recollecting his essence in the confines of the bubble. Though he had no eyes in his current state, the Piraka could feel his contemptuous gaze on them nevertheless. “How did you get that vial?” Hakann asked moodily. “When Avak sets me free,” Zaktan droned back, “I’ll tell you.” “When Avak sets you free,” Thok echoed snidely, “You’ll kill him. And I don’t have a problem with that, really, it’s just that the rest of us – myself included – pride ourselves on also being high on your ‘to-fillet list.’ Do you really think I’m as dumb as Reidak?” “I… do…” Avak grunted, unable to resist the opportunity. “SHUT UP!” Reidak roared for the third time. “Ooh, so sorry Reidak,” Thok apologized in a shoddy semblance of sheepishness. “Didn’t realize you were right there.” His smile was back, as strong as ever. “If killing you was part of my plan,” Zaktan explained pedantically. “I would have done it when I came in.” “Can’t argue with that logic,” Hakann rolled his eyes. “Here’s a dose of reason, Zaktan, permit me to dissect the situation as I see it: you expect us to give this – you, trapped and helpless – up, and for what? The possibility that this vial of what might be Anti has a larger meaning?” “Pick up the vial,” Zaktan suggested carelessly. “See for yourself.” “Good idea!” Thok chirped. “Hakann, go pick up the vial.” “I’m not getting close to that stuff,” Hakann retorted. “But you said it just might be Anti.” “Yes, and it might be.” Reidak barged past Thok and Hakann and stooped to hold the vial between his meaty thumb and forefinger. The Skakdi of Earth spun the thing in the air before his face, letting its green-black contents filter the meager light from outside. He grunted, tossed the vial back to Hakann, who caught it just in time, almost sent it flying again. Hakann too took a closer look at the contents of the vial, though he held it at arms length. Thok regarded the vial over Hakann’s shoulder. “Definitely Anti,” Reidak frowned. “How did he get it?” “I don’t know,” Hakann snapped back, gingerly setting the vial down on the ground. “Set me free,” Zaktan repeated. “And you’ll find out.” “…Fine,” Hakann conceded after a long moment. “Avak, let him go. Avak… Avak.” Avak was still too intensely focused on the prison to respond vocally. He slowly shook his head, keeping his glance trained on his sonic orb. “How cute,” Thok noted. “Avak’s learning to communicate!” “See, he’s afraid that Zaktan’ll swoop him the second that orb is gone,” Hakann explained conspicuously to Reidak, who chuckled at the tone. “Avak is afraid.” Avak didn’t acknowledge the jab; he wouldn’t split his concentration willingly. Hakann’s conspiratorial smirk flickered out. Businesslike, he picked up the coconut that Thok’d received from Zakk minutes before, and swung it at Avak’s head. Upon contact, the coconut broke, its juice splattered to earth, Avak’s focus broke, and the sphere in which Zaktan had been kept disappeared. Avak, panicking and on the floor, threw his hands up over his face, bracing for Zaktan’s impending strike. The strike didn’t come; the other Piraka laughed at the fetal position Avak had assumed. At a leisurely pace, Zaktan’s recognizable body reformed, and stared down the other four Piraka haughtily. Despite themselves, they all quailed; Zaktan’s calmness and stillness unnerved them more than an act of violence would have. “Well,” Hakann prodded. “How did you get the Anti?” “It was shown to me,” Zaktan replied simply. The others exchanged looks again; they all could guess what that meant. “Is he… here?” Avak inquired. “I thought—” “He’s gone,” Hakann snapped at him. “That was about the first thing we learned when you crashed us here. Zaktan is lying.” “But, the vial—” “Proves nothing,” Hakann finished. “It’s residual, gotta be…” Zaktan responded perfectly clearly with silence. Unnerving seriousness had manifested itself on Thok’s visage again. “Not gone,” he mumbled, saying the words as though they were a foul swear. “The Anti was shown to you,” Reidak pressed on anxiously. “Why?” Zaktan unhurriedly appraised Reidak. The corner of his flickering mouth tilted a bit, though the glow of his eyes remained cold. The other’s attentions were drawn to him; Zaktan drank their fixation as he slowly bent to pick up the vial from its place on the ground. He palmed it once more as he straightened, and by the time he had unrolled, his teeth were bared in a perilous leer. “It’s a key,” Zaktan whispered definitively, the hissing quality of his voice accentuated by its softness. Hunger floated palpably in the air. The Piraka’s minds, sent into overdrive by the ramifications of his prior statement, were pulled out of reverie as Zaktan spoke again. “Something is missing,” he stated. “Where’s the explosive oaf?” “Vezok?” Thok considered. “Who knows? Might’ve fallen into a pit someplace. Could have drowned. Maybe he was swallowed by something. Reidak was just showing off the flexibility of his mouth. Or was it the flexibility of his idiocy? I forgot—” “Shut u—” Reidak started to caution for the fourth time. “Vezok is in Ta-Koro,” Avak interrupted. “Probably getting into all sorts of trouble with the Matoran sheriffs. Why d’you ask?” “He might be useful to me,” Zaktan replied evenly. “Well, I’ve been perfectly happy without him around,” said Hakann as he plopped down on the couch where Thok had sat before. “Remind me why I should care what’s ‘useful’ to you.” “Because,” Zaktan intoned, his compound voice dripping with contempt, “I’m the one in charge.” “Beg to differ, Zaktan,” Thok broke in, twiddling his thumbs. “Who was just imprisoned, a cloud of floating specks, at our mercy?” “My mercy,” Avak corrected. “Be realistic, Avak,” Thok grinned impishly. “Hakann took you out with a coconut—” “Quiet,” Zaktan buzzed. “You’re fond of asking questions, Thok; I’ll play your game. Who among you knows how to use the Antidermis? Which of you knows what it unlocks? Can any of you touch it?” The others moped crossly. “No,” Zaktan concluded. “I have the information, I have the ability, and therefore I am in charge. We will retrieve Vezok because I say we will; he’s too good a tool to leave behind.” “All hail our great leader,” Hakann snarled. “Furthermore,” Zaktan proclaimed, ignoring Hakann as his ever-melting face arranged itself into a reptilian smile, “Ta-Koro is a playground we have not yet enjoyed. I wouldn’t dream of depriving any of you its amusement… We leave in two minutes.” The other Piraka made sounds of fervent approval, and went about collecting their weapons. The prospect of mass destruction could always rouse them. “This’ll be fun,” Avak said cheerfully to himself as he shouldered his pickaxe.

Mobilization time.

Staff powers, activate! J-e-r-k and its plural form are filtered because they can be used as insults to other members; maybe that kind of filtering is overprotective, but it's how things are. Obviously, the word j-e-r-k has a non-insulting meaning in its verb form, but since most of us RP in the past tense, and "jerked" isn't censored, it's a non-issue. Besides, we're all good enough writers to find substitutes if they're needed. As for putting first/last letters on a word full of hashtags to imply which curse word you're trying to say (i.e. "h###" instead of h-e-double-hockey-sticks), that's considered circumventing the word filter, and it isn't allowed. As long as the rules are being followed, I see "#####" as equally legitimate as "karz" or whichever curse you decide to employ. Personally, I think it's best to use overlong (or perhaps Shakespearean-style) insults or exclamations IC - they're the most fun.

Funny. Vox, you aren't allowed to kill any of this guy's characters that he got as the result of several failed dice rolls. That'd be too easy.

Thank you for the part of yourself you invested here. We'll all miss you. Do what you need to do.

IC: In the dark, blades kissed again and again. The noises of the weapons' ferocious impacts rebounded off the cavernous corridor's stony pillars and walls, growing in magnitude and distortion with every echo; the original clangs, compounded with the returning noises from seconds past, produced quite the cacophony in the dark passage. Sound, down in Mangaia, was known to be dangerous – it could attract unfriendly attention – but neither of the two combatants had space of mind to spare for caution. Their ears heard only the noises of their bodies, and their glowing red eyes saw only the next attack to be parried. The sparking impacts of the fighters' weapons sporadically clarified them in silhouette; both were hunched, with spines running down their backs. One held a long, sharp-ended staff, and the other clutched a curious blade in one hand and something small in the other. As they dueled, the duo's synchronization was almost choreographic; each sought to slay the other, and in pursuing those mutual – albeit opposing – objectives, the pair was evenly matched. Strike was traded for strike, block for block, cut for cut... yet neither of the two seemed slowed, or even pained, by wounds scored on their bodies. The staff-bearer struck deep into the blade-bearer's forearm; just an instant later, that same forearm swung its blade with full force to deliver what should have been a crippling wound to the staff-bearer's leg; the staff-bearer lunged uninhibitedly on that leg for its next attack. Both combatants hissed at each other. An especially skillful twirl from the blade-bearer knocked aside the enemy's weapon, leaving the spear-bearer's torso exposed; the blade-bearer, without hesitation, scored a deep gash there. A normal foe would have recoiled in agony, but this one did not; rather than giving ground, the staff-bearer pressed forward, taking advantage of the blade-bearer's extension. With a suddenly choked-up spear, swung a tight and decisive arc, the staff-bearer cleaved the blade-bearer in two at the midriff. In that moment, the blade-bearer disintegrated into dust, and fell to the earth like dry rain. As though blown gently by a cave wind hugging the earth, the dust particles continued to stir after they had fallen. The spear-bearer let loose a chilling howl of victory, and the dust scattered all around. A little crystal vial, full of something that moved on its own, had clinked happily to earth with the remains of the blade-bearer, bouncing a little along the ground so that it'd landed some feet away. Its black-green contents swirled lazily, and the subtle movement was not unseen by the spear-bearer's expert eyes. Something about the substance was familiar to the spear-bearer; head cocked to one side, the spear-bearer approached the vial, bent down to get a better look at it— The next noise that echoed around the cavernous space was the sound of the Rahkshi's head and body, divorced from each other by an airborne three-bladed scissor, falling with dull thuds onto the stony earth. Zaktan, reformed from the dust on the floor, willed his flying weapon back to himself, crouched to carefully pick up the vial of Antidermis, and continued onwards. Behind him, slow as dripping syrup, the head of the dead Kraata slipped out of its decapitated Rahkshi armor and flopped wetly to the ground. ... Zaktan had left the Piraka bungalow the same evening that the insanity voice had led him to discover the Antidermis, and this rapidity had been a sound decision. Had Zaktan delayed, the others would have doubtless followed him; such a prospect had been, and still was, supremely disagreeable. The Piraka were noisy and stupid, and aside from that, they would have wanted the prize in the Vault – whatever it was – for themselves. Zaktan didn't intend to share whatever it was he was soon to discover. Had he been able to make the entire voyage from Ta-Wahi as a cloud of Protodites, Zaktan would have done so. The Antidermis vial had complicated matters, though, since it couldn't dissolve and fly with him; it'd forced him to undertake his trek into Mangaia on foot, and thereby forced him to deal with irritating obstacles, of which the Rahkshi of Quick Healing had been only the latest, along the way. Inconveniences like these only augmented Zaktan's deeper embitterment with the little vial he bore. The flickering Skakdi was reluctant to associate again with the substance within; even now, the knowledge of its proximity made his whole body itch. Zaktan would not be weak, though. Something as trifling as reluctance – and reluctance borne of memory – would not stand in the way of him unlocking the greatest mystery, the simplest power, on the island. It did not take Zaktan long to find the place he sought. The door to the Vault, even in the dark, was pale as a dull moon. The massive slab was a featureless face, set flush into the rocky archway that towered higher than five Toa standing on each other’s shoulders. Zaktan ambled closer to the door, read the inscription that was the only flaw on its smooth countenance. He hypothesized several possible meanings on the spot. The impregnable slab, though, was of little concern to Zaktan, for he had come to employ the Vault’s other suspected entrance. Backing up from the door and looking up he spotted, camouflaged amidst the stalactites, a dark spot in the roughly vaulted ceiling: a hole. Zaktan, like dozens of others before him, had trekked into the bowels of Mangaia to see the Abettor. Unlike his predecessors, though, Zaktan knew that he would bypass the behemoth. The Antidermis vial in his possession, the blessing and curse of the insanity voice, was the key that the others had not had. All he had to do was ascend to the— Fingers of frustration dug into Zaktan’s gut and temples with his realization. He could not hold the vial when he was dissolved, and he could not fly when he was solid. He had miscalculated; he had been a fool. How could he have been so thoughtless? The Skakdi’s rippling face momentarily jerked violently in several directions at once, creating for the briefest of moments a grotesque and incomprehensible expression. The next flash, Zaktan was composed again. Over-eagerness, he determined, had brought him blindness; this was not a mistake he would make twice, because he never made a mistake twice. To ascend, he needed to use elemental energies that he could not access alone. He needed a tool. Still fuming, but already considering which of the Piraka to exploit, Zaktan turned back the way he had come, pointedly stomping down on and bursting the head of the Kraata as he passed it.

IC: Nowhere remembers nothing. Do you remember when the windows were wide? Of course I do. What a foolish question. Forgive me; I've nearly forgotten how to remember. Remember that my imprisonment is still younger than a turn of the heavens. Such a minute passage of time has barely touched me. Then you remember? You prove yourself, as always, a fool. Yes, I remember when the windows were wide... Do you? It has been so long. My recollections waver like starlight in a puddle. My recollections are sharper than blades of iced wind. You taunt me. Yes. I am happy that you have found a new way to occupy yourself. I occupy myself with more than this pointless banter. I know. My fingers will quickly discover sharp nails. You have chosen, then, to spend your remaining influence. Yes. Now, you are like me. Perhaps, but not for long. Tell me about when the windows were open. No. Why not? It would bring you happiness. I remember spaciousness, and very little else. That is as it should be. ... Incidentally, my influence was well-spent. I will indulge you in your eagerness: how so? My flickering thumb has just found his claw. His claw is not the true key. Correct; I do not intend for him to open the true safe. That comes later. I do not understand what you intend to achieve. He will find my weapon. The calamity you bottled, regardless of its volume, cannot open windows. Indeed not; my replacements, however, can. Your replacements shirk their role. Your mask has never made a mistake.

Small correction: the actual door of the Vault is a stony slab, blank aside from the inscription; it's the Abettor's tunnel above the main door that has geodes inside.