A G3 story: The Tale of the Toa of Flames

The ta-matoran blacksmith walked slowly through the smoke with his mangled prize tied to his back. This object was a failure, an ugly chunk of metal that was meant to be a sword. The task was assigned to this matoran by the turaga himself. He would hate to let down the old turaga, but the poor matoran had no choice. His elemental powers were next to none. The ta-matoran could barely even create a spark, let alone melt a metal with his own two hands. But he continued on his trail, until he saw his destination. He paused, hesitant to walk further. Turaga Vakama was like a father to him, and he would hate to let him down again. As the ta-matoran stood, reluctant to move on, he noticed how dark the village had gotten. Ta-koro had always been lacking of sun because of the smoke in the sky, but lately even the light of the lava flowing on the ground grew dim. The ta-matoran grew anxious by the darkness, and finally moved on. He made it to the door of Vakama’s home to find the old turaga with a small company of children. Vakama always liked to enrich the minds of the youth with stories and wisdom that was passed onto him through the generations. The turaga must have noticed the ta-matoran blacksmith standing by the door, as he quickly finished his tale, and shooed the children away. Somewhat perplexed, turaga Vakama waited for an explanation from the ta-matoran on his random appearance. But his confusion was ended as the young blacksmith pulled out the failure of a sword.
“Your time will come soon my child,” muttered Vakama. The old turaga grabbed the blade from the ta-matoran’s hands. He then grabbed a rock off the ground of his hut, and crushed it, letting the small chunks of rock to roll onto the sword. He then grasped the handle, and suddenly the blade was engulfed in flames. The ta-matoran watched as the fire died down and the metal of the sword turned red. The turaga the shaped the sword with his own two hands. He touched the top of the blade and moved his hand down to the handle, and the blade lost all it’s heat. The sword was complete, and it was a fine sword too.
“Now go back home and copy this sword exactly, and bring it to me tomorrow,”
“But turaga-”
“Practice makes perfect. You will be a great blacksmith one day, I am sure of it. Just not today.” The old turaga replied. He then grabbed an old rag and wrapped up the sword. He slipped something else into the rag, but the ta-matoran could not see what it was. He then strapped the rag to his back, thanked the turaga for his patience, and left the hut. He took the same path he had taken before, but this time, the matoran saw something out of the ordinary. It was a Lava Ape. Although indigenous to the region of ta-koro, the matoran had never seen one this close to his village, or even any village. Not only this, but the ape was acting strange. It seemed to be moving faster then an ordinary lava ape, but not as steady. It was also constantly turning its head, and it continued that action until it spotted the lonely little ta-matoran. The ape then ran towards the matoran, so the small ta-matoran sprinted away, and hid behind a rock. He pulled the rag containing the sword off his back, ready for the ape to strike. Suddenly, on the boulder above the ta-matoran’s head appeared the large Lava Ape. The matoran reached for his sword, but instead accidentally grabbed what turaga Vakama must have placed in the rag. It was a small stone with a symbol on top. The symbol the people of ta-koro pray to. A nuva symbol. The ta-matoran stared at the nuva stone in awe, almost forgetting the large beast that stood before him. The ape tried to attack the poor ta-matoran, but right before it did, the small little blacksmith felt the nuva stone heat up. Then suddenly the matoran was covered in fire, and all went black.
The ta-matoran woke up to find a dead lava ape in front of him, who had clearly been burned to death. The blacksmith could not remember much of the previous day. He felt different. He felt stronger, more agile, better. He could hear things too. Whispers from an unfamiliar voice. But it was a friendly voice. And it whispered his name.
“Tahu… Tahu… it is you… I have picked you… you are the toa of fire,” it whispered in the brain of the ta-matoran blacksmith Tahu, the new guardian of ta-koro.


Noice. Gud story.