Lewa bounded toward Le-Koro, hoping that the Bohrok hadn’t reached it yet. His villagers were courageous and capable, but Lewa knew that without him they would be no match for the Bohrok swarms.
Landing easily in the highest branches of a Madu tree, Lewa peered ahead. Smoke was drifting lazily up into the sky from the vicinity of the village.
Quickening his pace, the Toa of Air leaped from tree to tree, wondering how to protect the treetop village from attack. Perhaps it’s as Tahu often says – the best defense is a good offense, Lewa told himself. I could gather some of the village’s best windriders and do a little cloudsneaking to find the enemy before it finds us.
A stray breeze wound its way through the trees as Lewa neared the village. Tipping his face up to feel it, he launched himself through the air, catching the breeze and allowing it to guide him softly to the ground.
He landed by a gnarled old tree at the edge of a clearing. As he straightened up, he was startled to see that the clearing was filled with Le-Matoran. Turaga Matau was standing at the head of the crowd. He was clutching his Kau Kau staff as usual. But – what was on his face, in place of his regular mask?
Lewa gasped in horror. It wasn’t just Matau – all of the villagers wore glowing masks over their faces, each pulsing from a sickly green to a hideous orange. Behind the masked Matoran, plumes of acrid smoke traced ugly patterns in the air, blocking the view of the village above.
Matau smiled as he stepped forward toward the Toa, the expression grotesque behind the pulsing, unfamiliar mask.
“Greetings, Lewa,” the Turaga said in a monotone voice. “We have been waiting for you.”