It was a chilling cold that gripped the air like a claw and seemed to freeze all things in the dreary canyon in an unending form of slumber. The wind was deficient, the sky paralyzed, not even the animals dared to move down there in the clearing. An expanse of bleached white rock, coarse and riddled with pits and potholes, winding chasms meandering its length to mark out the traditional Skrall emblem. The Skrall, a united army of roughened, terrifying soldiers whose raw discipline and unified strength would send chills coursing through any inhabitant in this chaotic pretense of a world. An actual united army: a body of control, of authority, of obedience. And it was his. These thoughts would echo through his mind as he ascended the towering peak that pointed into the shrouded sky. It was dark, but he needed not light to see, not when he could pick up the world in a web of scents that drifted to him as easily as color. A long, scaly body slithered up the spike, passing in smooth, lithe motions. Pale pricks of armor stood on end as he reached the top, coiled his serpentine body up, and looked over the valley. Blue eyes took in a graveyard; his scent glands the same.
Scattered below were the bodies of many, gargantuan warriors fallen by bright lights and colorful tricks in the battle before. Ranks of soldiers had been slain easily; rock steeds toppled and Bone Hunters died. He could not count the number of casualties strewn before him, impaled on spikes, littered along the rocky plains. And in the center of it all, lay Tuma, former leader, now unconscious, probably dead. And it was better that way. He'd had the ferocity, but hardly the wits. He'd been a terrible leader, and it'd been difficult negotiating with him. And now, his stupidity had led to this ungainly alteration. His failed plans had led the Glatorian to the heart of the encampment, to attack the army from the inside, and cause drastic damage to its unification.
And I was changed, as well, he thought bitterly, looking down at his body. It was that of a snake, not an Agori – a feral creature, a vermin. Unspeakable.
But he would get that back, that and more. The Skrall were defeated this time, but only temporarily. They lived and died under the sword, they led an iron life of order and discipline. They wouldn't stay scattered for long; they'd form groups, and shelters, and he would hunt them down, and he would, little by little, be in control of these settlements. And he would crush the Glatorian, and exact his revenge.
Especially on that one, Mata Nui, it was. His armor had been unlike anything he had ever seen before: golden, smooth... new. It'd been a long time since he'd seen anything new. A hundred thousand years, actually. Everything was either old, rusty and worn out, or it wasn't existent. And that helmet of his, he remembered it well. It glowed when he'd made contact with it – rather, when he had been slammed into it. And it changed him into this serpent. Interesting indeed.
The night was growing deeper. The moon was already heavier in the sky, the stars' light at their fullest. In the distance, he could make out the burn of firelight. Skrall soldiers, preparing for the night. Metus angled his body and scurried off in that direction. He'd approach the Skrall in subtle ways, setting up signs for them to abide his will. Not direct orders, or even words, no, more discreet than that. And it would take a while. But eventually, he knew, everything would fall into place.
After all: once a businessman, always a businessman.