Once A Tale (MXM, BXB)

The White Dragon

Once upon a time, in the far heavens, there lived a dragon spirit.

He was as white as snow, with eyes as bright and fresh as a ripe lime. He rivalled all of the other dragons for beauty and yet he was unsatisfied. He could not decide what he wished to be, what he wished to preside over. He specialised in no elements like the mighty earth dragon or the gentle water dragon. Instead he spent many a day staring despondently down at the surface world, that he might understand what it is he should do or if he would forever be a dragon left undecided.

One day, the thunder dragon, a wise and respected master dragon spirit, approached him and said: "You look very glum, Quan. Have you not decided what it is you wish to preside over?"

"I really don't know," replied the white dragon in a small voice. "I don't think there's anything I could do."

The thunder dragon thought, called council with the other dragons, and returned to the white dragon many days later, saying to him, "Will you not come with me? Disguise yourself as a member of my entourage and perhaps interacting with those on the surface will give you some idea of what you wish to be."

The white dragon knew not if this would solve his troubles. However, he could not refuse the kindness of the thunder dragon. Therefore he assumed a human form and, together with the thunder dragon and his servants, descended to the world below to attend to his work...

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A young man walked down a beaten path. The path lead from the gate that opened onto his family's farm, winding its way up to the front door of the small home next to the barn. His short black hair swayed in the breeze and he was engrossed in a book, frowning down at it as he flicked between two pages, as though trying to pinpoint a problem. Eventually he gave up, sighing and closing the book with a snap and squinting against the sunlight as he rested his weight against the closed gate.

It was a clear, cloudless day but he was overrun with the strangest sense of melancholy.

It was more boredom than melancholy, but Wu personally liked the sound of melancholy better. It had a certain artistic flair to it that, while not suiting the situation, fit him just fine.

His father and grandmother often said that he should take his head out of the clouds for more than five minutes and think about what actual melancholy or whatever-it-was actually constituted. But, as is the way with any good son of an age where he thinks he knows everything, he ignored their reasonable advice, did his chores, and went on about his days dreaming and fantasizing.

Today's fantasies included a handsome young man on a white horse, making his way up to the gate Wu leaned on. He was joined with a small entourage of people, heads bowed and faces covered by cloth masks that were tied high on their foreheads and hung past their chins.

"Good afternoon," said the handsome young man.

Wu blinked. He squinted, rubbed his eyes and then looked again.

No. His fantasies didn't talk. And he wouldn't have gone with yellow garments, no matter how much the part of the noble it made the young man look.

"It should be blue or something instead," he said critically.

The young man blinked, looked to his entourage (they shook their heads) and then back at Wu. Wu thought he heard something stifled in the group, a snort, but he couldn't see the source, and another member of the entourage hissed a warning he couldn't hear.

"Good afternoon," he said again, pointedly. "Wu, son of Yin."

Wu frowned and straightened up, tucking his book into the front folds of his clothing. He took two steps back, to better assess the situation. All right. So, perhaps, this young man wasn't a part of his imagination. To be certain, he pinched the inside of his forearm until he muttered "ow" quietly and missed the way the young man astride the horse put his hand against his face.