AN/ I still live! Long story short: I'm a slow writer to begin with, and easily distracted. Then my school nearly got taken out by a tornado. No one died, though a few people came out of whatever room they were in and found the rest of their house gone. My family went to church a bit out of town (we left right after the first, milder tornado warning was lifted, and came back wondering if our house was still there. Our street was fine... The school football field? Not so much. But no one died, and there were few major injuries. Then I acidentily deleted the latest chapter of Of Monsters and Men. The story then fell into a plot hole with spikes of writer's block at the bottom. Then I fried my lap top: all this was written on my I-Pod, so please forgive some of the rougher edges. But if you see a plot hole, analyze it without mercy. I don't want to loose any stories the same way twice!
In Marine Societies, bending made and broke dreams.
"Hullo, Rossamund," Master Cornelius said. Rossamund smiled winsomely and echoed the greeting. Master Cornelius, like most retired, waterbending vinegroons, stood hunched with age. His wrinkled, dark skin had fascinated Rossamund ever since he was able to distinguish between persons. While life on the vinegar waves had aged him before his time, the master had no sea-sting welts to mar his unusually swarthy complexion Cornelius, in turn, tolerated the attention with no little amusement, joking that such fine notice of detail would make for a master sleuth. Rossamund had, when he was smaller, asked how he could be a sleuth when he was going to be a vinegroon. Cornelius had laughed and said, in that case, he would be an excellent lookout. He didn't tell him he had just as great a chance of having to settle for sleuthing as not. Such realism had no place in childish certainty.
"Ready?" the master asked, drawing a globe of water. The liquid sang beautifully in his hands, faint strains whispering of ever-in-motion and bearing-up-those-that-would-travel-with-the-flow. Rossamund nodded, and reached: this was his third and final Test. He already knew, by painful, jarring experience, he could not match the tune, but Master Fransitart had told him to try anyway. His notes screeched loudly, horribly out of key, in heart and ear. But Master Cornelius was strong, and did not flinch. After a small eternity, he finally said, "Enough." Rossamund gladly stopped. The master scrawled something in his book and waved him on.
The foundlingdry's only other bending master beckoned with a quick, impatient gesture. Master Darrow always appeared with a kind of frazzled chaos on his heels and a sense of destruction barely thwarted. As master over the firebending children, he lived in constant expectation of a summon about some sort of flaming pandemonium. Rossamund had not spoken to him before, but knew the sound of his bending quite well. Especially once-burning-now-smoke. The candle flame burned independent of any bending, but Rossamund still heard the whispering symphony of what-is-and-what-could-be.
"Begin," The master curtly ordered. Like before, Rossamund couldn't bend with the flame. Like before, Master Barrow called a halt not soon enough. "Go," the master nodded towards the door. Rossamund gladly quit the scene, ready to start the day free of lessons.
He wasn't a bender, not an earth bender: next week the visiting earth Master would confirm it. He had nothing to worry about.
His dreams were safe.