Son of Mahuta

This is in the planning now feel in love with the concept of the saga let me know what you guys reckon

🌿 The ngahere breathed.

Mist rolled low across the roots, wrapping fern and rākau in a silver korowai. The manu fell silent, as if they too waited.

From the haze, a figure emerged.

Armor gleamed like carved jade, every plate etched with swirling koru that pulsed faintly with wairua. His eyes glowed beneath the helm — not of flame, but of ancient mauri. He walked barefoot, yet the forest bent for him; ferns shifted, trees leaned, the ground itself whispered his name.

They called him cursed.

They called him Son of Mahuta.

Around his shoulders lay the korowai of Tāne — woven not of harakeke but of living mist. It clung to him like burden and cloak, flowing where he walked, smothering tracks behind him. To some, it was a sign of protection. To him, it was the weight of endless wandering.

He paused at a riverbank. The water, once clear, now ran thick with black sheen. Eka floated lifeless at the surface. The land groaned. He knelt, pressing jade gauntlets into the soil. Mist poured outward, curling into the stream, burning away the poison with a hiss.

A shadow screamed from the waters — a shape of twisted limbs and hungry eyes — but the Son did not flinch. With one hand he lifted a spear carved of greenstone veins. With the other, he raised the korowai around him. The mist surged, wrapping the creature in a shroud until it dissolved into nothing but ash and silence.

The stream cleared. The forest sighed.

But the warrior did not smile.

He rose, turning into the mist once more.

He knew this was only the beginning.

Others like him wandered the land — Children of Mist, each cursed with their burden.

Together, they would cleanse what sought to poison the earth.

And when the gods returned, the whenua would be ready.

🌫️ Thus begins the tale of the Son of Mahuta.