Ta-Metru. It is... it used to be... my home. Broken apart by cataclysm.
[Signs of life echo like whispers of ghosts in admist the foundries and rubble, nameplates and personal touches, well worn metal underfoot, paint on bars worn down from constant usage, hundreds of carved tablets hung with everything from worksmans lists to accolades, banners hung with the district colors, enormous screens that once might have displayed something important, now cracked and blackened. Enormous support rings, once holding some sort of transportation chute system that stretched in every direction, now lay empty and cracking.
The more they walk, the more the rubble fills in. Wildlife making nests. Webs stringing together broken pipework. A deep, poisonous fog of green.
The voices twist, a mocking tone that is hard to pinpoint as genuine or not.
--you should not blame yourself
you are a mask maker
matoran in armor
let us praise these jesters
imposters
you are a mask maker
not a--
The ground snaps forward as though being yanked through space by an invisible hand. You feel unsteady and will need to catch yourself.
You can hear the echoes of reaction as you do so - warbled, confused, distant. Someone, somewhere, elsewhere.
The space you raise up into has has the ceiling ans one of the walls completely blown out, revealing the darkened sky and smoke filled walkways trailing up and up into forever. It's a foundry, an enormous forge set in the center with equipment and tools strung from every available piece of metal, parts and craftings and molds and masks scattered like so much debris.
At the foot of the ruins lies a sphere. The hatch is open, with lights blinking on and off. But the sphere itself looks empty.
Vakama's exhausted demenaour only deepens at the site of it, choosing to ignore as he tries to get a better view of his bearings. But surely it would be fine to take a closer look.
Surely you would trust your h̴̠̣̪̊̊e̸̯̚r̷̢̬̹̾o̷̻̭̭̾͑͂̓̋e̴̢̡̪̋̂̇̓ͅs̷̛͉͖̥̬̯̈́̓]
no subject
[Signs of life echo like whispers of ghosts in admist the foundries and rubble, nameplates and personal touches, well worn metal underfoot, paint on bars worn down from constant usage, hundreds of carved tablets hung with everything from worksmans lists to accolades, banners hung with the district colors, enormous screens that once might have displayed something important, now cracked and blackened. Enormous support rings, once holding some sort of transportation chute system that stretched in every direction, now lay empty and cracking.
The more they walk, the more the rubble fills in. Wildlife making nests. Webs stringing together broken pipework. A deep, poisonous fog of green.
The voices twist, a mocking tone that is hard to pinpoint as genuine or not.
--you should not blame yourself
you are a mask maker
matoran in armor
let us praise these jesters
imposters
you are a mask maker
not a--
The ground snaps forward as though being yanked through space by an invisible hand. You feel unsteady and will need to catch yourself.
You can hear the echoes of reaction as you do so - warbled, confused, distant. Someone, somewhere, elsewhere.
The space you raise up into has has the ceiling ans one of the walls completely blown out, revealing the darkened sky and smoke filled walkways trailing up and up into forever. It's a foundry, an enormous forge set in the center with equipment and tools strung from every available piece of metal, parts and craftings and molds and masks scattered like so much debris.
At the foot of the ruins lies a sphere. The hatch is open, with lights blinking on and off. But the sphere itself looks empty.
Vakama's exhausted demenaour only deepens at the site of it, choosing to ignore as he tries to get a better view of his bearings. But surely it would be fine to take a closer look.
Surely you would trust your h̴̠̣̪̊̊e̸̯̚r̷̢̬̹̾o̷̻̭̭̾͑͂̓̋e̴̢̡̪̋̂̇̓ͅs̷̛͉͖̥̬̯̈́̓]