“Aghh!” The Onu-Matoran yelled, whipping around, dropping the few items in his grip as he whipped out his sword from its holding with practiced ease.
“Oh, few, just some other Matoran.” He muttered with a relived sigh, the other one continuing his odd prayers.
“Um, well... no, no. We’re not survivors per say, or at least not of this village. We stumbled across it during our travels and figured we may as gather as many supplies as we could, and, as my partner wanted, to give the dead a sort of prayer.” He replied, his voice carried a gruff, rumbling tone to it as he indicated the still praying Ta-Matoran, a touch of joking irritation to it as he spoke of him.