Luck, if you've ever been a lady to begin with, luck be a lady tonight – Air Nomads keep no possessions, Air Nomads are temperate
When he turns sixteen, Meelo receives his arrows – a little late, he thinks, but then, it's not like he ever really craved the responsibility of being a Master. When his skin heals up, he gaily waves good-bye to his baby brother and his parents and Republic City, the only home he's ever known, and flies North. He lands at the Northern Water Tribe.
It feels right, after all. He's descended from the Northern Water Tribe, on his great-great-grandmother's side. So in a way, it's like coming home.
It's also a nice throwback – he gets to return to being the one-in-a-million, the only Airbender in the entire North Pole. He flits to and fro, is admired wherever he goes, and he makes friends out of the soldiers.
But then… he gets bored again. Just like in Republic City, it strikes him here, too. It has always been Meelo's most dread enemy for as long as he can remember.
Boredom.
Boredom, along with its dread sisters, ennui, depression, melancholy, and very bleak philosophical musings. I mean, what's the point? He's the strongest Airbender in the world – and everybody knows it – he's from the bloodline of Avatar Aang and Katara the Mighty, he could whip up a storm and quell it again in fifteen minutes flat; but what's the point? There are no challenges anymore. Everywhere he goes, he gets bored, bored, bored.
Meelo's always been terrible at hiding his feelings. Fortunately, his fellow soldiers take pity on his obvious funk. They welcome him on their voyages into town, to their favorite dive bar where they socialize, drink, and play dice.
Alcohol makes Meelo's heart skip, and he's fine with socializing, but that bores him, too. The gambling table, though—there's barriers up, there. When Meelo so much as glances their way, the sharp-looking dealer tells him he can't airbend on the table, not on his life.
He gives her a look, says he wouldn't dream of bending pitiful little dice. To prove it, he calls his soldier friends over and lets them tie his hands behind his back. By this point they've gathered a crowd, and Meelo always did like putting on a show.
A beery old-timer who calls the gambling table his kingdom calls him out for a challenge. He swears at Meelo and insults his ancestry five ways; Meelo rolls his eyes and insults the old man's body odor seven ways. People laugh. The show's getting started.
"Place your bets," says the dealer. "Two dice, six-sided."
"Five," says the old-timer.
"Three," Meelo says. His heart skips a beat. It feels good. Three's his lucky number, after all.
The dealer rattles the dice in a cheap red cup, and spills them onto the tabletop.
Meelo catches his breath. Untouched by him, the dice spin and dance through empty air, over the table's felt cloth, rattling to their destiny, brief as a breath.
Anything could happen.
Three wins.
Around them, the air explodes with noise. His friends laugh and push copper coins his way. Meelo only has eyes for the dice.
"Aiya. Beginner's luck," the old-timer grumbles. "Whaddya say, kid? Best two out of three?"
Meelo looks up, his eyes bright, his grin wide. "How about three out of five?"