Final Chronicle Of Driscoll - rated 12A
Aug 8, 2008 18:06:20 GMT -5
Post by The Storyteller on Aug 8, 2008 18:06:20 GMT -5
This is the last chronicles of the island of Driscoll. If you read this I urge you, heed this warning. DO NOT attempt to save any survivors, or visit the island UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.
Before the nightmare arrived, we were a peaceful island. We had six villages across our island, protected by six toa, each controlling an elemental power - fire, water, stone, air, ice and ground. They were heroic and wise, though they could not save us from the coming death.
Then came the day of the boat.
It drifted into sight on the horizon, limping across the water slowly. only one of its motors was still working, and it took two days to make it to our island. It beached on the rocks about half a mile from shore. The hull was torn apart, the sail broken and no sign of life, we all worried what had happened.
A smaller dingy was then seen heading towards us from the same location, though this craft seemed reasonably undamaged, and a pilot could be seen.
A party was sent to the main boat, to find out what happened. We thought there were no survivors. We were wrong.
The smaller dingy landed onto the shore on the north west side. Our toa of water went to investigate. We never saw her again.
The party from the main boat returned to the shore. They returned changed. Their skin was ripped and scarred, their masks off and their teeth were sharp. Their feet were fast and their hunger was unbearable.
Po-Coll fell within hours. Around half the matoran managed to escape, along with the rock toa, to Le-Coll. The first retaliation began here.
The five remaining toa stood watching the fires burning down Po-Coll. Toa Spurgeon managed to shoot fire into the village, in the hope of buy them time as we hoisted the refugees into the treetop village of Le-Coll.
The Ice-toa’s mask of detection flared with power and the toa swung his sword to his right, cutting the arrow that was heading for the air-toa in half. They turned, weapons drawn, to face the attacker.
He stood like a toa, but even under his mask of accuracy, you could see he had been through more than even a toa should. A toa of Stone, he stood crossbow aimed at the toa of air. “For the sake of the universe, let me kill him”.
Shouting across treetops, the stranger revealed the genesis of our trouble.
Like our island, a strange boat arrived on his island. It carried a virus on it. Even he did not know where the virus came from originally, only how it was spread. An infected bites or scratches another and within minutes the victim was also an infected, thinking only of infecting more victims. One of the island’s toa, a controller of plant life, became infected. Within hours the virus was passed to all the plants on the island. If you brushed against a leaf, you were infected.
They set fire to the island. The toa’s of air and ice perished in the blazes, along with most of the infected. However, enough survived. For fear of the infection spreading into the water, they killed the water toa. Within days he was the only survivor.
The Infected’s hunger did not subside, and without any remaining matoran to hunt, they left in the island’s boats, seeking new islands and new victims.
The last toa shot down as many boats as he could, but he clearly did not get them all.
This was why he killed the toa of water who met him at the shore of Driscoll. This is why he said he must kill the toa of air, save the virus becoming airborne.
Unsurprisingly, the toa of Driscoll did not let him kill the air-toa. They would have fought with the survivor toa, but the infected were through, and they were starting to climb the trees.
We fled the treetops, but at a great cost. All those who had been in the guard stayed with the toa to help buy time. They all fell. Our toa of stone was bitten trying to bring down a tree covered with climbing infected. The refugees swung on vines across to Tah-Coll.
But the vines were not strong enough to hold the toa of earth, and he fell. His fall was the death-note to our island.
Within a couple of hours, the island’s earth changed its colour. It became a filthy black. The earth was infected. An single cut that touched the earth infected the poor victim. The earth was our enemy now.
Fast forward two days. I sit in the ice of Ko-Coll. There are only a couple of hundred survivors now. We hide here in the ice village, as the ice on the floor makes it safe to touch the ground again. The Infected are slowed slightly by the cold climate, but there are still thousands out there.
The stranger managed to assassinate our air toa yesterday. We did not complain, we knew it must be done. The stranger fell but an hour after, helping collapse the ice-bridges. The toa of fire left us to travel round the shore of the island, and destroy all the boats, and any other way of escaping this cursed land. We dont know if he managed it. We are unlikely ever to find out.
We have tied twelve copies of this final chronicle to air balloons, and we have released them to the wind. We just hope you read this and know to stay away, because by the time you read this, we will be dead but the infection wont.
Stay away
And fear the lifeless boats.
Markee - final chronicler of Driscoll.
May Mata-Nui have mercy on our souls.
Before the nightmare arrived, we were a peaceful island. We had six villages across our island, protected by six toa, each controlling an elemental power - fire, water, stone, air, ice and ground. They were heroic and wise, though they could not save us from the coming death.
Then came the day of the boat.
It drifted into sight on the horizon, limping across the water slowly. only one of its motors was still working, and it took two days to make it to our island. It beached on the rocks about half a mile from shore. The hull was torn apart, the sail broken and no sign of life, we all worried what had happened.
A smaller dingy was then seen heading towards us from the same location, though this craft seemed reasonably undamaged, and a pilot could be seen.
A party was sent to the main boat, to find out what happened. We thought there were no survivors. We were wrong.
The smaller dingy landed onto the shore on the north west side. Our toa of water went to investigate. We never saw her again.
The party from the main boat returned to the shore. They returned changed. Their skin was ripped and scarred, their masks off and their teeth were sharp. Their feet were fast and their hunger was unbearable.
Po-Coll fell within hours. Around half the matoran managed to escape, along with the rock toa, to Le-Coll. The first retaliation began here.
The five remaining toa stood watching the fires burning down Po-Coll. Toa Spurgeon managed to shoot fire into the village, in the hope of buy them time as we hoisted the refugees into the treetop village of Le-Coll.
The Ice-toa’s mask of detection flared with power and the toa swung his sword to his right, cutting the arrow that was heading for the air-toa in half. They turned, weapons drawn, to face the attacker.
He stood like a toa, but even under his mask of accuracy, you could see he had been through more than even a toa should. A toa of Stone, he stood crossbow aimed at the toa of air. “For the sake of the universe, let me kill him”.
Shouting across treetops, the stranger revealed the genesis of our trouble.
Like our island, a strange boat arrived on his island. It carried a virus on it. Even he did not know where the virus came from originally, only how it was spread. An infected bites or scratches another and within minutes the victim was also an infected, thinking only of infecting more victims. One of the island’s toa, a controller of plant life, became infected. Within hours the virus was passed to all the plants on the island. If you brushed against a leaf, you were infected.
They set fire to the island. The toa’s of air and ice perished in the blazes, along with most of the infected. However, enough survived. For fear of the infection spreading into the water, they killed the water toa. Within days he was the only survivor.
The Infected’s hunger did not subside, and without any remaining matoran to hunt, they left in the island’s boats, seeking new islands and new victims.
The last toa shot down as many boats as he could, but he clearly did not get them all.
This was why he killed the toa of water who met him at the shore of Driscoll. This is why he said he must kill the toa of air, save the virus becoming airborne.
Unsurprisingly, the toa of Driscoll did not let him kill the air-toa. They would have fought with the survivor toa, but the infected were through, and they were starting to climb the trees.
We fled the treetops, but at a great cost. All those who had been in the guard stayed with the toa to help buy time. They all fell. Our toa of stone was bitten trying to bring down a tree covered with climbing infected. The refugees swung on vines across to Tah-Coll.
But the vines were not strong enough to hold the toa of earth, and he fell. His fall was the death-note to our island.
Within a couple of hours, the island’s earth changed its colour. It became a filthy black. The earth was infected. An single cut that touched the earth infected the poor victim. The earth was our enemy now.
Fast forward two days. I sit in the ice of Ko-Coll. There are only a couple of hundred survivors now. We hide here in the ice village, as the ice on the floor makes it safe to touch the ground again. The Infected are slowed slightly by the cold climate, but there are still thousands out there.
The stranger managed to assassinate our air toa yesterday. We did not complain, we knew it must be done. The stranger fell but an hour after, helping collapse the ice-bridges. The toa of fire left us to travel round the shore of the island, and destroy all the boats, and any other way of escaping this cursed land. We dont know if he managed it. We are unlikely ever to find out.
We have tied twelve copies of this final chronicle to air balloons, and we have released them to the wind. We just hope you read this and know to stay away, because by the time you read this, we will be dead but the infection wont.
Stay away
And fear the lifeless boats.
Markee - final chronicler of Driscoll.
May Mata-Nui have mercy on our souls.