Spring has come to the archipelago as it does every year, and as always, the Matoran of the Great Western Island have made pilgrimages to the nearest of their island's Temples of Life. Some carried the remains of friends who have died in the last year; others were carried by friends, ready to give of themselves one last time to bring new life into the world. Most bring only themselves, and their energy, a small part of which will be siphoned in the creation of more Matoran.
It is late on the last day of the last week of the year. Matoran have been pressing their hands to the appointed spots on the temple walls all day; others have been shuttling bodies and raw materials into the receptacle chutes. It's an orderly proceedings, and a quiet one. A few of the bodies are only hours dead.
Finally, one last Matoran removes their hands from the wall. One final hunk of metal-bearing stone is heaved into a chute. The Matoran remaining in the temple file out, talking in low voices.
"Our village could use more Ga-Matoran..."
"Odds on getting any Ba-Matoran this year?"
"...looking forward to teaching some new vineswingers...."
Matoran flow out into the village surrounding the temple to sleep.
A few sentries settle just outside the temple to doze or play games by the glow of lightstones. They aren't here to guard, only to be ready to greet the new Matoran when they appear in the morning.