When The Great Spirit was set to rise and bring glory to the land once more, something went wrong.
Very wrong.
The story of how things went wrong begins with Six Canisters washing up on a beach. But this is not that story. This is the story of one Matoran by the name of Nyran, and it begins on the Northern Continent.
He was truly undefined, for he knew not who he was, or who he wanted to be. All he truly knew how to do was imitate others. And so when others were fleeing, running about, fearing the end of life as they knew it, claiming that Makuta, whatever they were, were mobilizing, and that Matoran were fighting each other, Nyran was at a loss.
Naturally, if everyone else was fleeing, then that would be the best plan, correct? And so Nyran managed to scrounge up a pitiful excuse for a boat, more of a raft, and he began to sail. He began to sail North.
Nyran, after going for some time on his raft, found himself at a Sea Gate, and on the other side, it felt most odd, and everything was darker. So dark in fact, that Nyran saw barely anything, outside of the occasional fire, and heard only screaming. He dared not approach the land, and just keep sailing on around the land.
He soon found himself to another Sea Gate, and passing through it, he saw light, and while it was still nighttime, the lights of the Legendary City on the horizon shone bright, and it was beautiful. He set his raft ashore, for surely this place would prove free of the wars his fellow Northern Continent Matoran spoke tales of.
It was that mind set that ended with Nyran captured by the natives of the Desert Section of the island he had found. He was captured by Po-Matoran, and thrown in a stockade. He learned from the fellow prisoners that as it happened, this island was the source of the war, and with the Black armor he sported, Nyran looked an awful lot like an Onu-Matoran, an enemy of the Po Matoran.
And so in the Stockade he stayed, chained his wrists, suspended from the ceiling.
Until one day, there was a ruckus, and a good deal of large, rather frightening looking figures showed up, bashing the guards, and freeing prisoners all throughout the prison. One in particular, with armor of red and white, thin, covered in spikes, used his spiky sword to cut the chains that bound Nyran. they briefly made eye contact, before the figure shook his head and moved on to other prisoners.
Nyran was free, and as it happened, he seemed like an Onu Matoran. So after everything was over, and the figures he later learned to be Makuta had left, he was put to work, sweeping and cleaning in the Archives of Onu-Metru.
And for a long time, that is what he did. Until one day, when Vahki began incapacitating Matoran, and ensnaring them. He knew of it not, and fell victim. He was inside a black pod now, and he knew it not. He suffered a dreamless sleep, stuck in his pod, deep in the Archives. He was not missed, for there were none left to miss him.
Eventually, there was someone there. And through means he knew not, he was revitalized, and began his life seemingly anew, still cleaning, working through the Archives as before. But now there were less exhibits, and far more things that needed cleaning.
And for a long time, once more, Nyran lived on, doing just that. Until came the darkness. The darkness came, and he was no longer working content as he was before, but in constant fear, under constant watch, by the Sons of the Makuta, and his other enforcers, waiting for the day when there would be light once more.