Late fall; leaves descending in mournful swirls from their branches. The crisp, clean scent of frost in the air. Blood painting the brown-and-green-mottled ground, carpeted by that decoration of season.
For Itrákuta had come. For darkness lurked between the trunks of Yrrin'gah Forest, on the island of Arak Serbon, far from Mata Nui or its dark sister Voya Nui; from the islands of Tay or Kutara Oni. For there was death in the name of brotherhood, carried on the wind with the scents of Rahkshi, Toa and vulture mixed into one.
He stood tall and dark and proud, and for what reason should he not? He was second in the organization to none but Makuta himself, or so he had always heard, though the Rahkshi tongues of Brotherhood of Makuta members never stray too far from lies. His talons crushed bones, the thick beak mounted on his Rahkshi-like head could puncture skulls and drip venom into what was within and with the masks he called to his chest and his broad, dark wings, he could fly. And he knew the ways of Matoran from the inside.
He and his posse of Rahkshi descended upon the remarkable flowing causeways and towering citadels of Arak Serbon, and with his various tricks, tools and brutish natural features and the savage, cunning fury of high-level Rahkshi. The white stone of that beautiful place ran thick with rainbow-hued Matoran blood, the duller, darker blood of their unspared beasts as well. The survivors wept and screamed and pled in their cities as Itrákuta slipped off into the shadows and the Rahkshi danced and screamed in the leaves that fell from leviathan trees. Itrákuta searched through his masks until he found one big enough to cover his savage head, poking vulturishly bare from his armored shoulders.
Imagine the gratefulness of the Matoran when a Toa appeared. Perhaps he seemed a little odd of speech or manner or appearance- he hissed and clicked when he spoke his words; he was unexpectedly and unpredictably violent; black feathers adorned the places his armor didn't cover and his back was half-way hunched into a Rahkshi-like stance. But who could begrudge the occasional peculiarity in the face of all he did? For he fell upon the foul serpents, the Rahkshi, with a force like a smiting bolt, and they were surprised though they'd heard him coming- why kill an ally?
Not all Matoran were taken in. Dark whispers of history and old legends circled, and Itrákuta was compared to the times when the Makuta had taken on Matoran form and hid among the dwellings of the damned before he took them, to the were-Kavinika who stalked the night, to the famous impersonation of the Nuian Turaga, Dume, by Makuta.
The night takes care of all worries, for those who guard it, who stoke it and whisper promises of eternity to it. And if a clear river ran red, or green, or brown by morning, accusations just seemed to slip off of Itrákuta.
Yet for all of being guardians of Night, the Brotherhood of Makuta resembles closely that savage hawk of day. In their brightest hour of peace, Arak Serbon was toppled, not overnight, but in the course of a single warm afternoon, sunlight sluicing down through the trees and gilding everything with warmth and good cheer. How could ill have happened on this day?
Yet Itrákuta was undaunted by weather too kind for killing. His sword grew thirsty for that beautiful blood like a painter's pallet, not the dull, corrosive purple blood of Rahkshi, nor the dimmed colors of Rahi, or the golden sap of the trees hacked to pieces deep in the forest where the Matoran would not see. In that day, twenty-one Matoran were slaughtered, but with such demonic ferocity that the fear Itrákuta had been longing for in his crouched confinement, stalking his prey, fell upon him in wave upon sweet wave, singing through him.
From that day on, the sun shone dark on Arak Serbon. Every move was monitored, every second one glad to have not ended in a shower of vibrant blood. No Toa could have stopped Itrákuta, for he had once been a Toa but had all his old talents and more, and a deathly team behind him.
And yet...
The days were growing colder as winter approached on frosted dragon wings when he landed, the sunrays growing longer with late afternoon. Tall as a Toa, shorter than the tyrant Itrákuta, and swathed in a cloak the gray of a stormcloud was he. She stood right behind him; it was agreed this time that she would wait with the boat. He moved forward soundless as a cat, poised on the balls of his feet. His shoes were of hard leather, not of metal like a Toa's, and not the wicked silver metallic talons of Itrákuta. They were not shoes built for combat, and yet combat was the skill that he was most devoted to.
He came up on the sand-beach shore and called once, twice, three times, "Itrákuta, worm who lurks in heart of shadow, will you never dare to look beyond your comforting darkness? Then leave now in your happy ignorance. For light is hard and harsh and unrelenting, and if you face me, you face the light."
The tyrant sitting on his throne heard the shout below and flung himself out the intricate stained-glass window depicting his triumph over a hundred-headed Rahkshi. His wings spread wide, nearly blotting the sun from view, and carried his heavy body toward that of his accuser. They stood, and looked each other up and down. Itrákuta the behemoth, muscular beyond Matoran definition, locked in heavy armor that bounced blows off it; face bare in all its hideous splendor, and across from him a pale-brown being who looked like a Toa without armor—merely a minimal leather shirt and breeches to protect from damp and scratches and immodesty—until you took in the dragon-like tail and the mane of raggedy black feathers running down his spine like a banner, crouched and light.
Itrákuta was a man of pride, and he answered with a gusty shriek, mourned by seagulls drifting above. "Lo for I am Itrákuta. I have murdered a thousand men, and a thousand women. I have killed ten in one blow, and I have crushed every Toa I have met."
"Then it is fortuitous for me that I am not a Toa," sang back the newcomer, "For you and they are much the same, save that you have some extra talents. A Toa has no thought in his mind but the accomplishment of his most immediate goal- annihilate shadow, drive the invasion off their island, kill their latest foe. You brag of deaths- I brag now of lives. You may have slain two thousand, but though I have killed many, I have only murdered two, for all others had their reasons. For the farmer to kill a wolf- that is not murder. For me to kill you- that would not be murder. You say you have killed ten in one blow? That is easy. Harder is to strike ten and kill one; to have one of those surviving nine be yourself, that no plot may be suspected, so far harder than yours that it leaves it eternally behind.
"And as for Toa, with their steel hearts locked forever on one path and their armored bodies following behind, they are not so hard to kill. Harder is what I have done- to destroy a Toa from the inside out, until he tears at his armor with bloodied fingernails and cries to be released. Hardest is to take a strong Toa and, retaining that strength, turn them loose, let them stretch and flex at last, working loose the cramps of righteousness, hypocrisy and sanctimosity, then to turn their friends to their enemies and their enemies to their friends. This is how I got my love and partner; I nearly died many times in the process, and this proves my might."
"You are a fool, stranger." Itrákuta pronounced, "For I have never come close to dying because my might has always been so far greater than my opponent that I need dread naught."
"A coward and a weakling then." The newcomer's face was calmly smiling, the worst for infuriating.
Itrákuta took his serrated sword then and letting rage course through him roared, "I am stronger than you whatever my weaknesses may be!" and went for him, slashing and parrying in a dazzling blend of moves practiced and practiced again until they flowed smooth as oil.
The newcomer skipped easily back, smiling still, like a raven that has decided to not yet take off, but does not desire the danger to come any the closer. He withdrew a short dagger.
"When will you ever understand?" Then without the aid of mask or wings, he pulled himself into the air off his coiled legs in a spontaneous, high leap. Itrákuta's sword could not fight a move never planned, nor could Itrákuta claw with his own natural weapons the newcomer. He landed lightly.
"Your move, Itrákuta." the newcomer said. The black giant swung like an enraged Kane-Ra. Fast as thought, the challenger dropped to his belly, and the sword swung high above him, shaking his ridge of feathers with its breeze. He popped up again right next to the tyrant's ear, and slashed at the throat left bare. Itrákuta dodged, but the dagger circled round on momentum and slid with surreal ease into the thick left neck artery, pulling on through without hesitation through windpipe and thinner right neck artery. Blood, black as tarnish and purple as a bruise in clumps and streaks exploded outwards, spraying onto the newcomer's brown Kaukau. The corpse slumped down into an awkward, rag doll-like sitting position.
"May death open your mind." He laid the dagger before the body, in the black-and-purpling sand, pried off a section of Itrákuta's armor in its stead and turned to go. A Ta-Matoran who had witnessed the fight ran up to him, old enough to have understood the carnage before him, young enough that he did not fear the same for himself.
"Sir, we owe our lives to you! Please, stay a while. At least tell us your name!" he gasped as he reached the newcomer. He did not stop, though he slowed his pace minutely.
"No, I doubt that I shall be staying long. My name is Endaki." His voice had the same lilt to it that it had carried when he taunted Itrákuta.
"But why? Our cities are nearly destroyed, two-thirds of our people killed, and many of our livestock rotting in the forest. There are still Rahkshi around, and wild Rahi in the forest that no guard remains to take care of. We would give you a hero's welcome as well, and you could be king and lead our people." The Matoran sounded incredulous at the hero's refusal.
"What! Have you learned NOTHING?" Endaki asked, cold fury in his tone, "I should have left you beneath that fool's thumb, for you truly are a race of slaves on this island! You are so willing to be led it disgusts me, and I have suspected it since you first came to me. You asked me my name, but did not give your own, so that I would be remembered and you could slip back into the shadows of unwritten and unknown history. And then you ask me to stay, to protect you from what you cannot, or rather, will not protect yourselves from; you need a Toa to tame the beasts of the forest. Again, you offer leadership to your savior, not seeming to recall what got you into this fix in the first place! No, now I shall not stay a second longer on this island!"
He began to run, long smooth strides cutting across the beach toward the forest where a stream hissed like a thousand Rahkshi, toward the boat moored there, and his waiting partner.
"Wait!" Much to the Matoran's surprise, Endaki stopped, turning to look at him. The Matoran gave a guardsmatoran salute. "You will be forever remembered, Toa Endaki, by Raithuna," he gestured to himself, "and all of my fellows who witnessed you as well."
"But I am not a Toa, Raithuna." Endaki said, "I am a Dark Hunter." At the look on Raithuna's eyes, he continued, "Merely because we hunt in the shadows does not mean that we are evil. This world is full of much corruption, among Matoran and the lesser spirits that make up organizations like the Brotherhood of Makuta alike. The Dark Hunters do not pretend to be completely free of it themselves, but to take responsibility for it individually would be to give into corruption ourselves. Only our leader is allowed to judge and filter our ranks, while we ourselves are sent to take it down as it presents itself more visibly.
"As beings in this world go, Toa are like beams of harsh light from a Lightstone, unrelenting, but fixed. They cannot bend, in part because of their nature, but also because of the choices of those holding the Lightstone. A Dark Hunter, on the other hand, is like a torch-flame. We require something in most cases in order to eradicate the darkness, but can leap and dart around, not even needing the same grip that the Lightstone requires. Left without guide, we do not immediately go dark like Lightstone when the pressure is removed, but will spread. Yet our employer may get burned himself if he is careless- this is why Toa and Lightstones are preferred over Dark Hunters and torches." The pale brown being looked at Raithuna carefully, tail twitching slightly.
"Just because we have been domineered by Itrákuta does not mean that we are ignorant. My father was a scholar. He is dead now, by Itrákuta's hand I believe. He related to me not so long ago the first half of the Tale of Exodus, about an island called Metru Nui. I think his goal was to make me see how Itrákuta was like Dume, the Turaga impersonated by Makuta, but I gained knowledge of the Dark Hunters as well. There were two on that island, interacting with Dume; yet, they did nothing about his corruption, and turned to hunting the young Toa instead." The Ta-Matoran looked as though he was trying to keep a good impression in Endaki's mind as he talked, yet still confront and attack him.
"I have no doubt that the Matoran version of that story renders all his lovely speeches banal, but I have heard of the Tale of the Exodus as well. Do you ever wonder how Nidhiki was unable to ever defeat even one of the Toa, and yet was good enough to be hired by Makuta- and to survive our entry-level tests? He was a double agent, Raithuna. Though he claimed to serve Makuta, his true purpose was to spy. He obeyed Makuta superficially, because he was the one holding the torch, but on the day that Makuta devoured his soul, he had planned to strike. Meanwhile, he lectured the young Toa on wisdom they never would have heard among the Matoran. His dialogues are among the most elegant in history- but what was that to those who have heard only the political speeches of Turaga? They have since been lost to Matoran history... but not to ours."
"I thank you, Endaki, for saving us, and for the wisdom you have given me. But your own advice would say that I should not take your own speech on its own, so I shall be going to what is left of my father's library." Raithuna saluted again.
Endaki smiled. Not the calm, taunting smile he'd used earlier, but a genuine beam. "A good book to start with." he said, and, withdrawing it from some hidden pocket, he tossed a worn, leather-bound book onto the sand between them. Then he returned to his run, entering the forest within minutes. As the last leaves of autumn swirled around him, Raithuna picked up the book. It was titled b Tale of the Exodus, Volume One: Coming of the Toa Metru /b . The author? I By Hunter Athaski, with forward and commentary by The Shadowed One /I .
As Raithuna returned, smiling, to his house in what was left of one of Arak Serdon's greatest cities, Endaki made it to his boat. She was waiting for him with a kiss and a smile.
"Let's go, Lirutha. The Shadowed One will be glad to hear of my victory, and I'm sure several rounds of beer with Reidak and Tharek are due."
"Ah, there will be stories to tell from both of us by the time we're back." Lirutha said, wisely, "And beer for me too." She gestured for her partner to get into the boat, and began to push it out herself.
"Adventure is the lifeblood of the Dark Hunter." Endaki agreed as the former Toa gave one final push and leapt in.
I …and so Itrákuta is defeated. I know not whether you will approve of my method or not, but this is my report, plain, simple and true. Because my journey is long and uncertain, I am giving this copy to a messenger-bird to give to Hunter Tara, who I know is on Yala Tay, in hopes that it reaches you first.
—Hunter Endaki, autumn of the Year of the Kal. /I
B I have read this report for the purpose of discovering its sender and recipient after obtaining it from the messenger-bird. The seal was undisturbed prior to this. May good fortune guide Endaki and Lirutha home- I fly now to deliver this to you, Shadowed One, and hope that my own journey is as swift. My partner should be able to cover for me while I am gone.
—Hunter Tara, winter of the Year of the Kal /b
The Shadowed One looked up from the scroll to the kneeling figure of Hunter Tara. She looked up slightly. The leader of the Dark Hunters was smiling.
"Excellent work." He strode over to the stratagem boards of maps and different sized and colored stones he had been occupied with before the report came in. He took off the black stone representing Itrákuta and moved the gray stones of Endaki and Lirutha to represent homeward bound instead of outward bound. Other changes followed, anticipating and planning reactions. He paused on the map of Arak Serdon, taking one of the smallest white pebbles and bouncing it thoughtfully in his clawed hand.
"Put it in the records." he told Tara, still looking at the pebble. The half-Toa bowed deeper, and left the room with the report, while The Shadowed One continued to muse over the pebble. He glanced at the other choices he could exchange the white pebble for- a black pebble, a larger white stone, a gray pebble, a larger black stone, a red-and-white-striped stone or a larger gray stone. Finally, he withdrew from an unused pouch a pebble of red, with flecks of all three tones in it.
"I believe we may have a wildcard now, Jaliis," he said, addressing his recorder, "But who could have suspected it? Every autumn, thousands of leaves fall in the forest, leaving no great mark on the Rahi who live there, or the Matoran nearby. But alter the course of one leaf, and the effects may be dramatic. Or they may be nothing at all."
I Author's Note: Don't ask. Please. I have no idea how or why I wrote this, because I was delirious from lack of sleep and summer camp burnout at that time. I only wrote the very end when I was aware and awake. I was originally planning to write a short tale wherein Endaki (I have no idea where the names came from either) swooped in and slew Itrákuta, and only at the end by talking to his partner revealed that he was a Dark Hunter and left everyone thinking he was a Toa. Nope! He had to get all philosophical not only with Itrákuta, but with the Matoran as well!
However, it has given me ideas for improving Nidhiki's dialogue (what? he's supposed to be all cunning and smart and a former Toa and whatnot, but his dialogue is LAME! well, so is everyone's, but STILL!) so I guess I'm pretty happy.
FYI, the Hunter Tara is a little hubris on my part. shrugs Hey, I needed some random Dark Hunter and Dark Hunter Lewagirl is my name on a different site, where this story first appeared. /I