Avatar; The Royal Firebender.

The Smile In the Fog.

The lower streets of Ba Sing Sei are quiet at this hour, save for the distant hiss of lanterns dimming and the occasional clatter of refuse stirred by wind. A mother walks alone through the merchant quarter, her twin sons trailing behind her like small shadows. She clutches their hands tightly, the sleeves of her too-thin robe pulled down over her wrists to guard against the cold. She had saved enough for a single loaf. One loaf. Until the man in golden silk brushed past her. Her coin purse vanished. So did her chance to feed her children. She begged the bakery. Pleaded. But the man behind the counter only shook his head. Now, she walks home with empty hands and twin sons who are too quiet, too tired to cry. Then... a sound. A voice. Muffled, deep. Then a scream. A crack. The distinct sound of bone striking stone.

She freezes, pulling her boys behind her into a recessed doorway. Her heart races. One of the boys whimpers. The other clutches a doll, a crude figure of a man with a painted blue face and a white smile. Six red strings arc from its back like the arms of a spider. In the darkness, more footsteps echo off the buildings. Heavy. Uneven. Then silence. The fog begins to roll in, a light chill, the scent of river water is carried by the mist. And from the fog... a shape. It glides like mist, cloak dragging against stone, no footsteps audible despite its approach. She sees blue and white, the faint gleam of a smiling mask, and for a terrifying moment, she thinks she's next. She clutches her boys behind her, shielding them with her body and tensing her eyes... but no words, no strike, nothing comes. Instead, as she turns to look at the spirit that had appeared it steps back and drops to a knee. Kneeling before a beggar woman as if she was a queen.

The Blue Spirit reaches into his cloak and produces a small bindle. The scent of warm bread, melted butter, honey and sugar lifts from the cloth. The Blue Spirit unties the bindle revealing its contents. She stares in awe at what he pulls from the cloth, two pastries wrapped in paper, drizzled in honey and dusted with sugar, a still warm golden loaf of bread, cheese, dried meat, fresh fruit and a small piece of paper. Timidly she takes the offering, watching as The Blue Spirit keeps its head bowed to her. He only lifts his head when he hears the young boys open the paper and gasp at what it concealed. The spirit returns to his full height, meeting the woman's gaze as she looks at him in awe and confusion. The Blue Spirit lifts a hand and reveals a last gift. A coin purse, so heavy that it threatens to split the seams of the leather bag. Her hand shakes and trembles as she takes the bag, its weight almost pulling her off her feet. As she recovers from accepting the impossibly heavy bag of coins, The Blue Spirit is gone. The only evidence he was ever there is the scent of river water and a single white lotus petal left at her feet. She finds the small folded parchment, unfolding it and finding a single sentence written on the page.

"Head to The Jasmine Dragon, Upper Ring, Order The Spirit's Brew." 

She doesn't notice the small white petal, and her sons don't either. They don't see when it is lifted by the wind and carried into the night sky vanishing into the darkness. It dances through the slums, gliding over rooftops and cracked stone, slipping between the bars of an alleyway gate, dipping past broken lanterns and forgotten shoes. The petal drifts lazily, spinning and fluttering in the wind as it begins to descend, slow and weightless, until the wind dies and the petal falls. It weaves through the splintered roof of an abandoned warehouse, once used as a place where fine silks, baubles, jewelry, precious stones and metals were once traded. A place where light shone at all hours a day and gold flowed through there like a river... but that light has long since died. The petal lands in silence, drifting into a shallow puddle on the cracked floor. Not water. Blood. The white is stained red instantly. Crimson creeps up its edges like a wound blooming in silence. Around it, chains rattle. Boots scrape. Voices mutter threats and deals behind closed doors. None of them see the mist begin to seep in under the door.

The air hangs thick with the musk of old incense and sweat, mingled with the tang of iron and salt, the scent of blood both dried and fresh. Flickering lamps burn low on the walls, bathing the stone interior in bruised amber light. Silk banners, once imported from the Western Archipelago, now hang faded and threadbare, stained with soot and oil smoke. Smuggled Fire Nation liquor sloshes in cracked glass decanters. Spices long since outlawed for their alchemical properties are stored in clay pots sealed with wax and branded with dragon's tongues. Rare pelts and ivory gleam from crates, still slick with fresh blood. Jewelry lies in tangled clumps on dusty tables, some clearly torn from the hands and necks of nobles or corpses. Stolen earth kingdom armor, freshly looted, lies folded beside gagged children huddled in cages. A chorus of groans, whimpers, and soft coughs rises from the southern end of the room, where a row of iron bars holds dozens, perhaps more, of men, women, and children. Some are too dazed to speak. Others whisper prayers to spirits long thought silent.