A Po-Matoran stood atop a rocky outcropping, squinting underneath his Kanohi as he tried to see through the white radiance of the afternoon sun immersing the plains around him. He gleaned small sprouts of shrubbery along the endless stretches of sand, but his Akaku kept scanning, his eyes never settling. Rays of sunlight streamed from the sun, an orb in a sky so fair blue that it looked white. It was one of those days where one could forget it was still the depths of winter, true spring many months away. The wind had even died down to a breeze as it participated in the weather’s charade, the Matoran’s tunic robe barely flapping atop the rocks.
Having seen enough of the rolling desert, he climbed down from the crest to where his covered wagon lie. The two Mahi that carried him here grazed on nearby brush, looking up at his return. Climbing back on his wagon, he urged the Rahi forward, continuing his journey. What the Matoran was looking for he did not find, so he would continue exploring the further depths of the desert.
Beneath the desert dirt, beyond what his Kanohi could see, the Rhode was buried, a highway system connecting this place to the rest of the continent of Del Vienvi. Somewhere out here, half buried in the desert, the elders of Tenpravih claimed that the Rhode still existed. The Matoran had been sent out to find it; their home having been destroyed by hurricanes, his village had sailed to find new lands, to only find that they had not left their country at all. If the Rhode existed in this desert, then he and his own people—the Utywans—could possibly make their way back home this way once the winter ended. There could be food on the Rhode, and they would be able to be away from the ocean they’d grown to hate sailing on. He shuddered at the thought—across the sea had been an unforgiving and unforgettable journey; if they found the Rhode, they would not have to endure that ordeal again.
The first step, however, was trampling through the desert in the direction he thought was right. Now a few days journey beyond the westernmost homes of the most withdrawn hermits, even the silhouette of the largest mountain of Tenpravih no longer visible. Out here existed nothing but the wilderness, (and hopefully the Rhode) the grasslands even fading to the beginnings of the deep desert. While the pair of Mahi pulled the traveler, their footing shifted, the sand turning from stretches of hard packed and rocky to soft and hilly. There were hours when sweat poured from the three of them, falling into the waves of heat that rippled off of the dunes. The Matoran would watch them, before looking into his wagon, unsure on how many more days he could travel in this direction before being forced to turn back.
The nights were cool, where the extremes of the day gave way to the comfort of the stars. While his steeds rested, the Matoran would lay on the dunes, watching the constellations in the blackness. His Akaku contained starcharts from previous adventures, and he would compare where the stars rested in the sky; most nights, however, he would just gaze up, seeing what made the night milky. The Red Star still was up there, hanging stoically amongst the whiter stars, while bursts of the cosmos were plastered against the sky for his viewing pleasure.
He would lay like this, watching the nights, until he fell asleep. In his slumber he would dream, most nights of how he first came to the Tenpravihn shores…