"In the era before the Avatar, we bent not the elements, but the energy within ourselves."
His shadow danced around in a dark room, whizzing by a late lantern with certainty, but a lack of poise. In the past few months he grew to like this room; it's modest size and set up: a bed, a desk and a closet against the wall. But now, as he was getting ready to leave it, he didn't feel remorse growing as he thought it would. Every time he passed the desk he glanced at the letters laid open upon it and felt confidence grow instead. Not a feeling he knew well, but one he now truly enjoyed.
Tomorrow, after lunch, he'll say a tear-jerking goodbye to his dear mother and master Hai-Fu and stroll of into the world with pen in one hand and coin in the other; in search for good people, great stories and songs. One of which, he hoped, would be about a medic saving a life in combat. The letters on the desk expressed gratitude for the act, but never spoke of it. He wanted to know. He needed to know. The back address on those letters was his first destination.
He walked to the table, picked one of those letters up and folded it so the painted family insignia was fully visible. A Dragonbird stood proudly in the middle of the picture; it's open wings extended just a touch over the circle bordering the flaming beast. He smiled at it and gently pushed it into his pocket.
A thud snapped his sight to the door. He walked over, opened it to a limply standing figure. It swung in its place, back and forth. It breathing with eery difficulty and strangest of voices. Soft, but powerful in volume, immense to the ear.
Strangely, the figure's head lifted and he saw it's eyes were glowing stark blue. Cold and empty. It froze him - the stare, held him transfixed. It was a kind of hold that he couldn't see. He tried to run and the muscles clenched, but he didn't move! He couldn't move! Something prevented him from moving. He sensed it, crawling under his skin, pumping with his blood, keeping him here.
Suddenly, the figure pounced and he was pushed back whole, hauled like a unit to the back wall. It pressed him into it and left him powerless; not even his head could move. It held him like it wanted, moved him like a puppet. Only his eyes were free and his lips were allowed to quiver as much as they wished.
It's hands reached: one pressed against his frantic heart and the other - against his head, thumb on forehead. A slow stream, run down from the second hand and nested near a tear-duct. He tried to blink it away, but it only muddied his sight with a shade of rose. The intruder inhaled and the hands pushed.
For a second, he felt empty. His mind was as clear as a river in spring. For half a year - nothing, but mud.