Building a Chronicle - Dawn of the First Day

Hello everyone! I would implore you to read my two other posts on this subreddit to more fully understand what this is all about. It’s all about a dream of light; a mask of hope that anyone can wear if fear has them trembling. With the community activated by the teasing of something new from Christian Faber, there’s something that I’ve realised; I always come back to these stories. And perhaps that’s evident of my own belief in their cause for existence proper; a synthesis of a new chronicle, if you will. A new beginning.


The moon rose beautifully that morning.

The sun, or what people called it, left in an eternal and neverending combustion, had continued to heat the oceans and light the skies. But there was shadow, as there always is. A great shadow was cast along the Vulga Magna ocean, one that even the sun couldn’t destroy. It continued for hundreds of miles; cast by the largest thing on the planet. Clouds swarmed around the mountain’s shoulders, and a thousand rainfalls wept down his arms. A continuous waterfall of debris and blood cascaded down his legs, and his feet were submerged beneath the bottomless ocean. The God, despite its figure so large, its feet slowly sinking and boiling into the planet’s core, did not look down at his subjects. He looked up. Nobody could mistake the face that it bore; simply an extension of the will of its creators, an immortal testament to their genius. It resembled a child, full of wonder and love of the world. Two great crystalline eyes, moons to the people below, were closed. He looked, yet saw nothing, and beneath kilometres of steel, darkness loomed. But he was crying.

The battle had been fierce. As Velika recalled, in his observatory above the cradle of the God’s brain, the war had lasted for days, even waiting hours for the God to open his eyes. But it was over, and as his arms coiled around the shadow restraining him, he contemplated how it could have gone differently. Maybe this was the destiny of his creations; maybe there was only destruction. What figure stood before him was only of shadow, standing out against the white of his mind, and wrapped his hand upon his bio-mechanical cheek. He tried not to weep, to show any weaknesses, but this was what his last creation had been so keen at doing. This is what he was designed for. So why was he afraid?

“I think it’s time,” spoke the maw of infinity. His eyes were open; great banks of light inside a shell of darkness. Velika couldn’t look away. “So give me the strength I need.”

Silence. The God continued to cry. And as much as Velika despised the situation, he couldn’t help but feel the grip of love in his heart. All things had been created, as he had once, by two beings of utmost arrogance, and this was no different. Or was it? He couldn’t recall the beginnings and endings of things. Only the now. Only the terror. He understand it now.

“Fine. I will succeed where you failed, Father.”

The continent-muscles that ran up the God’s person began to whirr, like a million hurricanes colliding. Beneath the foot, down in the bottomless ocean, swarmed creatures with no interest in the Meeting of the Mata - yet, like all things, they found a home in the dark. There was another head, of another fallen God, crushed beneath that foot. It would serve one final purpose for those fish.

The God finally opened his eyes. And something else rose behind the moon. A mask.


Below you can find the links to the two posts I have made previously. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed making them!

Every day for the next six days, I will be releasing a new post with an attached script that will look at preliminary glimpses into a new and familiar world; one where there’s hope for the past and present. But this can’t exist without you. I have already managed to touch a few people in this community, but I can’t obsess over something that only I will read. This is a call for help and support; I will be contacting those who I believe could help build this new Chronicle with their incredible talents. On the seventh day, a week from now, I will release the information that will make my intentions clear - then you can find out what this is all really about.

Together, I believe we can begin something great. If you give me the mandate, I will make it my duty to deliver. But the destiny of this Chronicle is up for you to decide.

A PARTING GIFT, CHRONICLER:

The sermon began at once, like a pin dropping. They had all been standing around, waiting for someone to make the first move, to unveil the curtain, but none of them were that foolish. The curtain unfolded itself. Even though they could all see through it, they were all amazed by the Tihuga’s array of baubles and curio - Jala couldn’t name half of the skulls on his staff. They all joined hands, but Jala couldn’t stop staring at the smallest of those skulls. He had never seen a creature of that size, of that shape - it almost looked like … Sizzle.

The metal rod that delved deep into the furnace’s heart was slowly lifted by the crinkled gears in the Tihuga’s right arm. He wanted to help him, but … he seemed to stumble at first, yet there was an unwarranted strength to the individual. Jala’s eyes flicked over to Agni, waiting at the centre of the circle. They were all holding hands now. The sweat had started to make a reappearance, as Jala dreaded. It always made things harder. It made people harder to grab. But the Tihuga continued, nevertheless, even though the chanting hadn’t picked up yet. So Jala did his duty. With a huff, he began the chanting, and it took a second. He could feel the eyes burn at his skin. But Kapura joined in next, and … and … and the ritual had officially begun.

The language was foreign, and he couldn’t tell if it was Kalama or his sweat now sizzling at their fingertips, but he spoke it nonetheless. He could almost feel the tickle of the night’s cold air through the flaps of the leather-strapped tent. It kept him thinking, so he didn’t have to see what came next. But he had to watch, didn’t he? That was his duty. That was why he was chanting. And that’s why the Tihuga called him up. He was the one to put the molten mask on the child, and make him a man.

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Wow, this was pretty breathtaking. Faber’s art also really helped to sell the emotion, gave it a lot of atmosphere.

Whatever this is, it looks really awesome! I’ll gladly continue to read!

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Lightning struck and ricocheted across the ignited sky. From this distance, Kongu believed, it almost looked like an stellar dance - a thousand harpoons, sent down by Le, stabbing against the night. But it wasn’t a dance - it was life or death.

He swivelled off his walking stick, desperate to see more of the cave. Its frost-covered interior stretched outwards, bothering Pulu so much so that it decided to plant itself outside, covering his body with the Gukko’s own wide wings. The light was blocked by the creature, making the writing hard to read, and they were running out of time. He scanned the drywall, almost etched out of ice, with his faster-than-light eyes. But he couldn’t find it. Stories, chronicles of times long past, a mention of Julepi and Kule, a map of the heart of a Kanohi Dragon, but no mention of his desire. He fuffed and noticed; his breath was ice. How far had they come?

A bug scuttled underneath his foot as he leaned against the mighty wall, using it as support. The stick dropped to the ground with a cold, metallic clank. It rattled for too long, echoing against walls that Kongu couldn’t see. It didn’t matter what he thought, as he fell across the cave’s distance. The entire wall began to cave, unable to support his tiny body, kicking up an avalanche of dust and spitting ice at his summery face. It took him too long to open his eyes - but open them he did, as he shuffled to find where his stick was. His hand groped, and his eyes wandered, and – his bird squawked!

His head shot to the entrance - what was beyond the light? The lightning had finally ceased, the moon once more the only dancer in the night sky, but it wasn’t over. The Gukko was possessed, disrupting the package on his undercarriage. Kongu feared for his safety, if Pulu decided to take off into the night, but he raised his good arm to give the creature something to focus on. The cries continued. So he looked at what Pulu was looking at, and was left stumbling.

The word that had been erased from history. The word that had gotten him into this trouble, even as a faint glimmer, and even as the ornaments on the wall of the cave dropped and shattered, the world went cold and quiet. Kongu could see it clearly. He could see it, and he felt for the first time since – he felt that he could stand. Nonetheless, his face was nothing if frozen. And Pulu’s undercarriage came loose, then. The squawking ceased. Kongu approached to the bag, his stick forgotten.

It began to rumble, like the stew that Taiki used to make him. The sickness in his stomach continued to remind him. But, even as he awaited in terror what was to come, he couldn’t forget the word on the side of the wall. The word that conquered the entire rocky face, larger and more expertly crafted that anyone in Sehon could have made in the last 1,000 years. It must have been before Nightfall. This was unmistakable. The word was TOA, and it meant war. It meant everything that Kongu had prepared for, and avoided, and it meant the world was about to change.

And the Toa in the bag began to rise.


The air will remain electric in this new Chronicle. More will be revealed soon; just as the Toa arrive to return a world’s identity, we can build a new mask to restore ours.

THANK YOU, CHRONICLER!

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She was running. As fast as she could, the soles of her feet worn with rust and dirt, she ran, but the pain wasn’t in her feet anymore. It was in her lungs; they were full of sand, and her eyes couldn’t open anymore. Yet the moonlight was so bright, and in the expanse of nothing, she could even taste something. It was her own blood.

The books clutched around her arm had weighed her down, and she wondered if they would possibly cost her the life she was trying to win. The life of tomorrow seemed so distant, like the milky-white stars in the night sky that bent and towered over her, but she endured. Her feet struck the sand again and again. Her breath soared and collapsed, her chest rising and falling, and the sand dunes dared her to fail at any moment. She kept looking back at the moon, a celebrated idol of their innocence, as she rode the waves of the Jehui desert. No matter how far she went, she always looked back. Only for a second, but each time her face morphed into one of more and more panic. But she never dropped her books.

The heat over her back was immense; the blood in her lungs was fire to her tongue; yet, for some odd reason, she continued running. The rest of the world would have found it funny - especially her killer. His bow was pulled back at full stretch, and his eyes weren’t failing in finding her. But he didn’t let go, not yet, even though his compatriots were watching. He could feel their eyes at the back of his skull rotting. Unlucky for them, he found the stench rewarding. So he let his arm linger, the muscles beginning to twitch with pain, and he eased the bow down. There was a roar of disapproval, but they were silenced by a glare. His hands remained clenched around the wood of the bow, and the dripping metal of the arrowhead. Some saliva dripped onto his shoulder, but he quickly wiped it off. The gag had been looser than he remembered; somebody was going to pay for it.

She tripped over the next sand dune. While she got to her feet quickly, stains of blood marred her fall. One of her books was missing. She had to move, but she had to look. She wore a Rau, after all, but she did not make it. It was given to her. And her mask maker was not mistaken; she dived into the sand, looking for her lost artefact. The killer drew his bow.

The arrow fired at blinding speed, catching a glimmer of the moonlight as it went down. She cried out, as he had hoped. It had struck her, and she fell. But she got back up again. She ran, blood still down her, and her books underneath her arm. If anything, the killer smiled, she seemed faster. He tilted his head up, trying to find a way to see the Mataran’s wounds, but could only see a book with an arrow imbedded in it. In the empty, pointless night, the killer let out a bellowing laugh from the heavens. His clique absentmindedly followed.

She could see the gate properly now - her name was Bour, she remembered - and the lever could almost be made out from the masonry behind it. She was so close now, even as the arrow had torn her book apart. Even as pieces of paper flew out against the hot, sweaty night. Even as the moon seemed to follow her, she no longer turned back. She reached out her hand, her entire body numb, desperately trying to make it to the other side of the Wall.

And the game was over.

A Nuimaka, four times her size, crashed down into the sand. It was disastrously monstrous, a face like shrapnel, and it had masks hanging on a chain wrapped around its neck. It dangled in the wind, but was too heavy to blow. Its massive wings folded along its mammalian, spindly arms. And its tiny legs, used for nothing but clutching its victims, rolled along its talons on the hot sands. But it was nothing compared to the monster above; the killer, and his clique, with his bow. His mask had fallen apart long ago, replaced by different crafts of his victims. There was only one word for this kind of mask; Kuhlin, or shattered.

Her head fell. Her bloodied feet seemed to be her only refuge. But she could still see the lever between the arms of the Nuimaka. She could still see that new life. She … began to cry.

“Oh, darling.”

Her face wrinkled beneath the Rau, as the bowman had finally spoken up. Was he even of this land? The questions didn’t matter, as even the books were on the ground now. Shakily, she had a plan. All she could do was pick up the arrow from the paper and point at the creature in one final act. There was no reply.

“You want to see your little friend, is that it? Well, I may be a Rotulu, but I am also generous.”

Bour did not budge from her position, but she was brought to tilting her head further up. She didn’t believe the Rotulu’s lies, not even for Podu. But something compelled her. She couldn’t win, and her books would be lost forever, but she could at least … she couldn’t think of it. All she could do was watch as the killer tilted his beast forward, revealing the gagged Podu, his eyes squinting and wet. But he opened them for a moment, and they locked gazes. She dropped the arrow. It was the same face she had fallen in love with, the same mask that had taught her to love herself, and the same misty-eyed stupidity that made her leave everything for the night sky. Now he had been higher than she had ever been, and it was her fault.

It was at that moment that the arrow was fired. It went through the female Mataran, leaving her only one breath before immeiate death. But when her body tumbled down the dune, she was gone. Podu tried to cry, but the gag smothered his whimpers. The killer had refused his duty once; second chances don’t come around often. And as the Rotulu had his way with Podu, the moon and its irreverent crater dared not blink. His clique did not turn away. It was clear as the day that would never come; any light was just a fable, like the books that they burned later. But at least, for a brief moment, it gave off just a bit of flame.

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“Now that’s a sight I wouldn’t miss for the world.”

They both had their arms plastered to their back, supporting them on the grassy moss covering the back of the mountain pass. From this point, where the rocky slopes bent back toward the horizon, a new sight gave way; the mouth of Mangai, and all of her wonders. The stigmatised lava flows, still boiling, and the isolated Kehita bird that still soared above the dormant crest, waiting for its master to return. But the grass had begun to regrow, and life was establishing itself. That was four years ago.

Ketena had no plans to live any longer.

He had little quarrel with the night sky. For what seemed like an eternity in the darkness, he was thankful for the cooler nights that let him run around and spend as much time away from the cramped indoors. But now, as he looked up, through the slits of his mask, the sky didn’t seem as welcoming. Maybe it was his conscience, but the others that had gathered around him weren’t that friendly, either. A thousand beedy eyes gnawed at his mask, waiting for him to crack, and there was no loss of resolve from Ketena. He did his duty; the knife drew blood, and it went into the pile. But he never removed his bag. That had been the one term of their meeting.

He could barely make out their masks, let alone their stock, from beneath those burgundy cloaks. The chief had come forward with an attractive offer, and how could he refuse? But as his arms came closer into view, grabbing his, they looked out of this world; he could see the muscles twitch. And he could see the embers, as well. Those little flickers of power that seemed to spit out from the Mataran themselves, yet were so absent in his own. They were what terrified a generation, and had made these sort of people dig underground, and kept him fixed to his position. He let the chief rub his hands down his face and his body, searching for some semblance of Mata, but he withdrew his hands without so much as a húff. There was more blood added to the pile. The chief drew with his fingers, next. The result was unmistakable; the combined sigils of the three primary elements, the aftermath of hate. But this was not a gathering of haters or the sick, but those looking for their lost masters. The cogs of their mind had continued to spin when there was no one running it, and like any lost toy, they returned to their maker. Ketena hesitated, dipping his hand deep into the pool at the centre of the temple. It froze, solid as a rock, before it wasn’t anymore. He could move his fingers, but … it wasn’t his hand anymore. It was someone else’.s And as his terrified eyes darted around the room, those cloaks that had menaced him disappeared; the dust, warped, and the chief, now …

That was years ago, too.

Ketena followed the footsteps back, waiting to hear the birds cry of the guardsmen catch him first. There was nothing. He wrapped a hand around his stump, trying not to remove the bandage. But he moved on, nonetheless, like the only person in the world. There was nothing behind him; very little forward, either, apart from … a view.

He couldn’t balance on his back like they used to, but he could at least see with his two eyes. Ketena, the Po-Mataran with no craft nor passion, enjoyed those breaks into the night, where all he could do was stare. His eyes were this crystalline viewing glass for the rest of the world, and every colour, sound, emotion and notion became encased in that prism. But he could never forget the screams that he heard, most of all. And he wished, and had tried to, forget the time the stars went dark. The war had taken everything, he thought. At least they had each other.

But his bag was still attached, as he reminded himself, down deeper into the pass. He was almost there, now; he could see the part of the mountain that could almost give way, and the frosts behind him had been replaced with this new glow and harmony. Was there as much grass here since he had last been? He had seen the pages inscribed into the wall, he had heard the stories, and the ash under his feet at the Memorial felt so real. But this was no tomb of Ta, and as he approached that pass, he couldn’t believe what he saw. There was no more ash, no more magma flows; it was all green.

For the first time in so long, he could cry. That view was even more beautiful than before. Ketena’s bag slipped down to his side, as he could finally sit down in some peace. The air on his face, on the Akaku that he still reluctantly wore, felt almost as fresh as that night. When everything seemed so calm, before the world had started to spin, and before demons became as tempting as they are now. He would wait here for the rest of his life.

For, not too far over the ridge that they had found refuge on, came a rumbling; a ferocious, mechanical beast. Each footfall shook the pebbles stuck between his fingers, and it almost seemed like the arch that bellowed above him would give way. But this creature was not here to destroy; Ketena was sure of it. As it approached him, the Mataran’s hand stretched into the bag, pulling out the mask that he had been carrying. The mask that he had sworn to keep safe, even if there was some chipping on the side. The mask that he held out in front of him, not as a shield, but as an invitation. The Muaka, its eyes dilated and its lips pulled back, began to slow its approach. It sniffed the mask, just a metre from Ketena’s face, fascinated. But it was no use, he thought, as the creature’s teeth began to sink into the mask’s brittle structure. He put it down and decided to take one last look at the view. The Muaka did not, apparently, immediately kill him. It took a few good seconds for that to happen.

Ketena, at the end of his life, could enjoy the rebirth of nature on the maw of flame. Or perhaps it was no time at all. But to the Mataran, who had lost so much, he had regained that friend he had lost so long ago; it seemed to him that the two of them could gaze at the mountainside for years again, and the whole world would stop spinning. Few things last, and Ketena knew how much both of them had changed. He closed his eyes in those final eternal seconds. Then the bite came - It didn’t even hurt that much. But letting go … that certainly did.

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Just going to preface this with an apology that I’ve been an area with terrible internet and that’s hindered my ability to get these out. However, to compensate, here are a few more entries, Chroniclers:


Stories can come in many forms. Etched through the walls, burnt into the rims of a mask, or by messages in our own memory. There’s a nuance to this; a decision to be made in the future of this Chronicle. I have attached a script that will shed some light of one possible way that this story could commence. Good luck, Chronicler.


The rain peddled down on the world, washing away the colour from the air. A stench of decay crept everywhere. What had been light returned to darkness, and what had been a clear sky had become shrouded in pillowy, smoky stacks of apathy. What remained of the ground had become clouded with ash and mist, with things lurking below that few understood. There was a burst of colour, however, in the distance; red, hot flame spewed forth and into the sky, a scream of colour. But in an instant it was over, and like all things, the rain returned. The Mataran wished for the clouds to part. He wished for the world to begin anew, and for the screaming to stop.

“Please, my … lord, I need you.”

The cathedral had become destitute and stained glass was scattered among the moss - whatever it once depicted, there was nothing left. Shattered glass tipped into the interior, bent out of proportion, where chairs and pews were being eaten by insect-rahi and, most noticably, had been reduced to ash on one side. The side faced towards the epicentre of the ruin; where any light from above seemed to avoid, even if there was no material blocking it. In fact, from where the Mataran stood, he couldn’t even see what he was looking at; a mere metres away, glossed over by the paintbrush of the night. He reached out again, his hand twisting in the air like a skeleton, and he was forced to stop. He was … in pain. For when he looked down at his hand, which flinched back from the darkness, he realised what had afflicted him.

The screaming finally stopped. This masculine roar, like a war drum being strung too tight, felt like it came from every corner of the gargantuan church. But, now that it had stopped, the rock and the cement could settle. Dust fell from the cracks, and behind the Mataran, there was a disturbance.

A voice bellowed from the darkness.

“Go back, Kutanian. This place is not for the fearful.”

The Mataran flinched at the term - could the lord not be able to see him, like he could not? He furrowed his brow beneath his Pakari, and sat down on the only still-standing chair in the building. His hand wrapped around the other, gently caressing the pain, he knew that leaving was not an option. He remembered his exits, and where to hide if the flame returned, but there was no where else to run. He spoke up:

“Entire towns … reduced to the ash. My friends can’t wait for you to be told to get up, my lord. I don’t know where else to go. So don’t turn me away. You can’t. Not now. So --”

“So you don’t know who you are, where you come from, but you believe you know how the world ought to be? How laughable. This is your ghost; your dream, isn’t it, Takua?”

Takua froze. The pouch he carried around his shoulder slid from its hold, spilling across the ground. Out of it revealed the item that decided his fate; the mask of the Akirs, made from simple bamboo. It was both elegant in design and a ■■■■■■■ of its origin, but this did not dimish its potential. Both Takua and the lord stopped, agasp of the item’s introduction, Takua’s body shaking with the implication. Without so much as a huff he retrieved it, staying clear of the darkness, and retrieved the mask. But he did not get up. He was on his knees now, begging. The floor felt warm, even though it was covered in moss. In fact, the whole place felt like home, even though it looked nothing like it. So he spoke:

“I want a home, your grace. I want a place where the sun shines and the grass blows in the wind, where stories can be told and where we can live in peace. I want that world, that’s all.”

Thought in the darkness. Takua’s eyes looked up, but not his head. He remained clasping the ground, the ever-growing nothing taunting him.

“How much are you willing … to sacrifice to get there?” The voice spoke, hissing and crackling at its consonants. Now it was time for Takua to pause, cupping his blue Pakari with his hands and slowly getting to his feet. He thought to his friends, and the home he had lost, and the things he didn’t yet understand. He saw the pathway burning, and the night sky lost in the milky darkness, and a Potawin hut collapsing in on the teeth of a Muaka. But, most of all, in his spinning dream, he saw the creature that wore the Huna, hands clasped behind his back and his eyes great flickers of flame. He taunted him, laughing at his failures, waiting for him to betray someone else. But he felt like he knew him, somehow. His eyes were still closed, and his body shook with realisation;

He couldn’t know what he already has sacrificed.

There was no other choice. He stepped into the darkness. His skin and armour burnt all around him, the cloth draped over his shoulder starting to crackle, but he kept his eyes open. He couldn’t see his dream now, but he could feel it. Although it burnt, he kept his eyes open; it almost felt like the heat of the sun on his back.

Takua thought he could see the form of the lord, who occupied the majority of the building. With his booming voice, he saw something move in the night - a slithering body, like a snake, snuck past him, smaller than he imagined. But it had no face, no head, and slithered away.

It disappeared.

Two massive claws shot out of it, grabbing the corners of the Cathedral that still stood and they remained intact, shockingly. Behind them, the air seemed to part around two gargantuan wings, and a body that never seemed to have fit inside the desolate temple towered above it, a neck of scales and scales of kanohi. Its image was unmistakable; the Kanohi dragon.

“There must always be fuel for the fire.”

Takua could barely speak. Every breath was a thousand bleeding-hot knives, but he opened his mouth regardless.

“I’m … not afraid of the fire … Makuta.”

Its demonic, dilated eyes, each one as large as Takua’s face, and flaming in their centre, blinked. A million masks around his skin seemed to magically apparate eyes, and they all stared at the defiant Makuta.

For the first time in a thousand years, the creature laughed. There was no fire out of its mouth, and there was no great stomping of the mortals below. Instead, it began to shrink and morph; the masks and scales burnt away, like a match in the dark, and with it, the burning sensation alleviated around Takua. The pews gained their colour, the glass reversed its direction and stood by itself to form great murals to Ta, the forgotten God, and the moss faded away.

There was nothing left in its wake.

Behind Takua, on the small statue that teetered on the edge, now sat a creature half Rahi and half Mataran, but smaller than both. Its figure was so troglodytic, and its snout so wispy, it seemed part of the wall itself. But it was the laughing voice. His Huna was unmistakable; it was Takua’s ghost. Or, as he now realised, ghost in Old Katanian only translated as one word: Vakama.

“Fire is fear, Takua.”

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How did it come to this? The final crack in a wall of ice came not from rage, but from a serendipitous desire. He knew this when he raised his right hand up into the air and slammed it with all the force in his small body. The entrance gave way, shuddering and shattering, into a … dining room. Food, drink and cutlery was unmistkable from each other, as they had become fuzed in the frosty-white gas that had grown everywhere. But Matoro kept on anyway; he was here for one reason that could be the difference between the white and the dark. It was the host of the dinner; the only figure that still resembled a person in the face of the entirely icy wall.

He would only have a few seconds. But he did what he could, diving into his bag for hope. He had heard the stories; the legends in the wall of the Juhi wall, and the masks that hung from Kurkuri tower. Even from his residence in the district of the Gregarious, sometimes, when the clouds that dominated the sky parted, he could see the home of the Ankora. But he couldn’t stay there any longer, looking for the future. He couldn’t wait for the one thing every single one of his peers desired; the return of the Akir. The Akirs were gone, and this was the fact that led to the creation of the Ankoriohl the first place. What all the records chanted, down and down the halls, even down to Muku, was the bravery of the Akirs. But here he was, his voice freezing in his lungs, standing in front of the one person that may have a chance of success. The word ‘Akir’ was no issue to Matoro - he knew that an Akir alone could not save them. There was a word so ancient that only the Kokutanians would ever have the resolve to fully understand what it meant, but few fossils still echoed in their current tongue; he knew it was a word of this by-gone era because, unlike anything, it meant ‘hope.’

As Matoro brought down his hand upon the large, frozen creature, he knew the word that would spell the end of the neverending night. Toa.


Greetings, and thank you for your continued attention. To those who were willing to read the past seven posts I have made in the past eight or so days, I thank you with all my heart. I was unable to deliver the seventh day yesterday due to being in an area without internet, and I am writing to you in a rather difficult position. But I do hope that more people will enjoy my work, which has been a continued and ever-affable exciting encounter for me to conduct. But this is the time of officiousness now; now you will know what this project really is.

The Biological Chronicle is an upcoming web video series written and read by myself, uploaded to Youtube in the style of popular audio-book series. It will follow the story of the people of Mata Nui, a land drenched in a 10,000 year night split between roughly half a dozen warring tribes, each connected to a fundamental element. Their culture is defined by the constant affliction (and power) they have; the constant wearing of a mask that connects them to their element. In a culture of masks, an exile by the name of Takua must find a way to be true to himself, discover his identity, and find out what he really wants; a reality in shadow or a dream of light; a dark mind or the effulgent soul.

We will follow the foosteps of the original Bionicle series, but choosing to make deviations to fulfil two obligations; to excite the viewer with a new but familiar world and series of characters, and to tell a self-standing, compelling story. After following Bionicle for most of my childhood, it shaping my interactions, ideals and most of all fuelling my creativity, I have an utmost respect for the source material but this project is not intended to be a faithful retelling, due to the limitations and compromises of the original medium. To those who desire this, please see Bionicle: Iliad on Youtube. This project shall deliver:

Daring but familiar interpretations of the characters you love…

This has already been witnessed in a few different posts I have made. Every character from G1 year one will appear in the story, in some way or form, but certain attributes, roles and attitudes may be changed to further improve the story and their interactions. However, this is not done without respect; every character will also get new opportunities to express their personality in ways that never existed in G1.

A thriving, developed world that is recognisable, but teeming with all manners of living.

Every part of the original has been revamped to make every part as compelling and unique as possible, where places are not divided merely on element, but by geography, humanities and economy. This is the world of reality; one where you can really believe this is the consequence of the rules already stated. Every chapter will unveil something new about the world, so the viewer will always be discovering something. The creatures, weapons and customs will be crafted to enhance the environment, characterisation and power of the story.

A personal but grand story, touching every corner of the island from the shores of Gasaga to the very peak of Ukiankor.

There will be a clear protagonist in this series, as all stories tend to possess, but every manner of person will be met and understood by the story; the events by which these characters are tested will be greater than anything that could be done in G1, and there will be an adult and mature utterance on the consequences of such a world and, most of all, the cost of the dream of light that the people, the Matarans (meaning Spiritfolk in Mataniuhl), want so much.

In a world of masks, how do you know who you really are?

The first chapter, titled ‘The Bright Phantom’ will be released in a week’s time, on the 07/07.

Good luck, CHRONICLER.

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