The Chronicler Final Poll

[Velox]

The Chronicler Final Poll

 

Vote here for your favorite The Chronicler story. Please MAKE SURE YOU READ ALL ENTRIES BEFORE VOTING.Voting begins now and will end on July 17th at 11:59 PM PST. The entry with the most votes will be the winner of The Chronicler theme and will then be either judged or polled against the winners of the other themes.

 

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Choice #1:

 

They say that the life of the chronicler is more esteemed than that of a Turaga, more desired than anything else a Matoran can do.

They’re wrong. Dead wrong. Being a chronicler is like being a trophy, with no real purpose. You’re a burden and a nuisance for the mighty heroes you follow.Even worse is what you see. Sure, a chronicler from Metru Nui or some nice and lawful place has it easy. Maybe some vicious Rahi, maybe a criminal or two, but nothing as ghastly as the scene we walked through. Ahead my team leader stood, looking about with a grim expression. The village we traveled to was deserted; bereft of the living that is. I winced as I trod upon a limp hand, picking my way through the corpses.“Who did this, Toa?” My voice annoys me to no end: shaky after the sudden scare. The Toa of Stone glances down at me.“Piraka, chronicler. That’s who did this. Skakdi, Vortixx, who knows. They’re Piraka to the core.” His voice was harsh, and he turned away before I could answer. I was stung by his tone before—glancing at his shaking shoulders—I realized that he too was overcome by the tragedy we stood in the midst of.I turned away instead, hunting out the team healer, a young Lightning Toa. Unlike the rest of us she was at work, lining the still bodies next to each other rather than in the grotesque sprawling they had assumed before. I looked at her, not at the dead Matoran below me.“What are we going to do?” The real questions never come when they’re needed. Most chroniclers must get sick of reality sometimes when they depict the flowery speeches that go one between the Toa. She looked up at me, her soft blue eyes pained.“What we’ve always done these past years, Chronicler. We leave the dead and we move on.”I nodded, unable to look into those deep orbs, stumbling away. I sat down in a deserted building, at an old desk. My tablet was in my hand, but I couldn’t write. A dead Ko-Matoran lay next to the desk, his hands grasping futilely at a bundle of scrolls. No doubt those were more important to him than his own life. I left my tablet on the desk then, bending over him. As I moved him into a more dignified posture I felt the tears coming. I gave in, crouching against a wall and sobbing.These moments were not what they promised you when they handed you the scrolls and the tablets, when they welcomed you with speeches and cheers.These were moments that even Toa could not face. There was no overarching evil to face, no mastermind to bring to justice. It was only another band of scum, of no worth to the world, no worth save for that which they deprived the innocent of. I don’t know how long I crouched there in my grief, but at last I staggered back to the desk.It was then that I began writing this with a vigor I had never known.Life is Karzahni when you really look into it. Recording it just adds another stage to it. Because you see these horrors, and then you relive them by writing them. And you make others live it, even if they can only glimpse it in your text. But for me, right now, it’s the best I can do. I’m not a Toa, I have no powers or weapons or fancy masks. All I have is this tablet, all I can do is write this.I’m a Chronicler. This is my ordeal.

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Choice #2:

"The Close of the Civil War"

Any good Chronicler knows that a story is no more than a sum of other stories.If a worthy Chronicler happened upon the Makuta-led massacre of civil war leaders in the Archives, that Chronicler ought not to think of only the heres and nows — the bodies strewn across the floor, the bloodstains on Teridax’s blade, the morbid satisfaction betrayed by his grin — but of the befores and afters.Such a Chronicler might say: There lies Odipheus the Po-Matoran, his right arm separated from the rest of his body, his eyes open in an empty gaze: Odipheus, who had pleaded in his prayers for the chance to face he who dared to incarcerate him, now free from bodily pain; who had asked that blood be shed and received his wish in more ways than one. And there lies Ta-Matoran Karhi, whose fiery temper ignited the hopes and fears of his kin, intimidating in death as he was in life: who drew his sword only to serve his friends and, in the end, gave up his life for them.That Chronicler might continue and note the Ga-Matoran Kokora, who courted Odipheus for a time before being repulsed by his rebellious streak and, for the duration of the Matoran Civil War, served only as healer and assistant. He may remark in brief about the passing of Ko-Matoran Irhu, perhaps the most pragmatic among those of the coldest Metru, who preached for cool heads and was rewarded being flung into battle with the opposite.But there was no Chronicler here.Teridax was cunning. As he had determined the war would end on his terms, so end it would — along with the talks of rebellion and the songs of heroes wrongly apotheosized and villains improperly labeled, of the very essence and hubris that had caused the conflict in the first place.Oh, Miserix would be furious if he discovered, and the Matoran would cry foul.But — and here lay the inherent pulchritude, the beautiful simplicity of his plot — Teridax would have cleaned the blood off his blade by then, and he would speak with squared shoulders and somber eyes of how he had been offered no other options. He would speak of a defender backed against a wall and forced to strike out against those he had sworn to protect. And no one would correct him.For he had made certain that he, and no virtuous individual, no Matoran or Toa — only he would write the chronicle of how the civil war came to its close.

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Choice #3:

"Words by Kopeke"

I have never been one to do much speaking. I never had to. I let others talk their throats hoarse if they wanted. I let them discharge their views, right or wrong, whether I agreed or not, to their hearts' contents. Words never solved anything. I listened when I thought it was worth while, but what good would it have been to answer? I stood by and did what I had to do.

For many years it was my job to listen and observe. It wasn't my own story I was chronicling. It was the story of the universe. I was just watching. That was my duty and I stuck to it. Words are useless, idle things. Now, so am I.

The time of my usefulness is past. My destiny as a chronicler was fulfilled when I became a Toa. During those centuries I spoke even less. I did my duty and I wasted no time talking. My deeds have passed into legend alongside the feats of the many great heroes in our history. Still I was only an observer. Only I had become an observer of my own destiny.

That was a long time ago. We live in more peaceable times now. The world has little use for Toa, and even less for quiet Turaga. My destiny is over. My chronicles are written.

I spend my days now in tranquil seclusion. There is not much here for me to observe. Only memories. I have lost my purpose. I am now useless, idle.

In losing my purpose I have found it.

Idleness need not be useless if it is worthily devoted. If words are worthless, if I am idle, let us unite and find a destiny for us both.

Now I have a new gift to give the universe. My time has been well spent observing our world. I have done much, and seen more. I may have nothing tot tell that has not been told, but that does not mean my mind is empty.

In an idle chair, with words and stylus, I will create new legends.

For the first time I open my mouth to speak. After millennia of silence, I have a lot to say.

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Choice #4:

"Uniform"

I’ll never fit in… Hielo thought Every time I have an adventure, everyone stares at me quizzically. As if they’re judging if I really am a Ko-Matoran. Hielo wandered into his flat in Ko-Ouda. He’d never applied for a job, he never wanted one. After all, who wants to sit around all day studying or working? Oh wait, that’s right; Everybody else. Hielo thought as he sat down. He flicked on his television and watched it halfheartedly. He was distraught to say the least. No one liked him, no one appreciated his company, and no one thought that he was worth anything. Not even him. Hielo got up to go to bed when something of interest caught his attention: the chief chronicler of Ouda-Nui had been connected to a crime ring in Onu-Ouda and the Turaga was now seeking a replacement! I’m the guy for the job. Hielo thought as he grabbed his bag and set out for the central city of Ouda-Nui.

“Hey! Watch it!” A Matoran driver yelled as he jerked to a stop. “Sorry!” Hielo yelled back. Getting through the city was hard. There were too many side streets and roads that intersected, and the traffic signals being out of sync only made it worse. One had to have sharp wits and reflexes to make it out of here with a few cuts. Here I am; the Tower. Hielo thought. The Tower was the very center of Ouda-Nui. Only the rich, the famous, and the officials lived here. After a week’s journey, Hielo had finally made it. Now to get inside…

“Wow, they don’t like guest.” Hielo said. He didn’t make it past the lobby. Apparently you needed a visitor’s pass, which Hielo did not possess, to get inside. Well, so much for plan A. Hielo thought. “Time for plan B” He said as he gazed upward towards the top of the Tower.

In hindsight, this was most definitely NOT a good idea. Hielo thought as he looked down. He was thirty stories in the air and still had twenty stories to go before he reached the Turaga’s private flat at the top. By now, a large crowd of Matoran had amassed in front of the building. Great, just what I needed; extra attention.

The Turaga of Ouda-Nui was just waking up from his afternoon nap when Hielo tumbled through a window. “What’s this?” The Turaga said, “An adventurous Matoran, I don’t come across many of those.”

“Forgive my entrance, Turaga.” Hielo said, exhausted. “I’ve come to apply for the job of chief Chronicler.” Hielo said.

“What is your name?” The Turaga asked.

“My name is Hielo, Turaga.” Hielo replied.

"Well then, Hielo, the title of Chronicler is not one that is given away freely. One must earn it by traveling throughout Ouda-Nui and keeping a detailed history of such an adventure.” The Turaga said.

“Very well, Turaga. I will return in one month with the stories of my journey.” Hielo said with a slight bow as he climbed out of the window.

“I would recommend that you use the lift.” The Turaga said.

“Nah, the welcome desk attendant doesn’t like me very much.” Hielo said as he jumped through the window.

The Turaga chuckled a little. He’s the one. I can feel it. The Turaga thought.

“Every Matoran has His or Her place. Hielos does not; he must be terminated” An ominous voice said. “Or have you forgotten, my dear Turaga, that every Matoran must be uniform. Have you forgotten you place? Must you be terminated?”

“No, master, I am making the call now." The Turaga said as he keyed in a com code.

I’m really glad that the parachute worked. Hielo thought as he walked away from the Tower.

Now it’s time to head off to Le-Ouda.

“He’s on his way toward Le-Ouda” A voice crackled through the intercom. “Make sure he doesn’t make it into the city, Korvux.”

“Sure thing boss, but Hielo isn’t a Matoran that’s so easily killed.” Korvux said as he assumed his sniping position in a nearby tree. He’ll have no idea what hit him. Korvux thought as he activated his camouflage.

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[BBBBalta]

It was a tough choice between 1 and 2. I wound up voting for 2.

[Velox]

Polling period over; topic closed. Final polls should be up tomorrow, hopefully.