1. Prologue

This is a Vivian production, written by Vivian of "Merlin to Vivian'

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><p><em>The Channelers of Water were the closest there were to being human.<em>

Like the churning depths, each had their subtleties. If one were to look at a member of the Water Tribespeople's eyes, looking into blue or green or blue-green or green-blue pools of thought, one would see layers upon layers of wisdoms – some cheap, some profound. The Water people embodied the patience and understanding that comes from calm, collected thought.

They were fearless humans, for who else would want to brave the vast seas in search for new things? Who else could brave the Tidehunter's domain or brush against the treacherous Breath of the Windlord in its capricious moments? Who else would dare risk the Stonemother's displeasure by almost spending their entire lives without standing on an inch of earth?

They did not even fear the wrath of the Firelord.

The People were unafraid, too, of the unknown. Legends tell of how they were the First to welcome the Spirits into their lives, when the other fleshlings shunned the presences of these invisible, powerful beings. They had willingly embraced the Channeling, or so it is told by the Water Tribe seers. The spirits seemed to bless and acknowledge this, for each child of the Tribe had more chance than any other People of being a Channeler.

In that respect, the firstborn son of the Southern Water Tribe leader belonged to the rarer ones who didn't have the affinity.

It was a fact that his younger sister, one whom the elders had praised for bonding to a spirit at birth, continued to tease him about, despite herself.

_The Channelers of Earth were the closest there were to being human._

The true children of the Stonemother, they called themselves. They were workers of the earth, giving to it the entireties of their being: their sweat, their blood and tears, without asking for nothing more than to live to kiss the earth one more day. They embodied the human essential of work equalling worth, and the admirable aspect of the unshakeable human spirit.

Extremely practical, they were the most hardworking People, sometimes devoting their entire lives to a single cause, unmindful of themselves; because they all believed in the importance of the More than the One.

They were the most numerous People, and also the most long-living. Those who could channel lived longer than most. Though they would grow old and wrinkled, they would never grow feeble or weak. They had the astounding capacity to endure and persist.

Spirits whispered to their Channelers how the People were the most resilient spirits after life, and whether that claim was true or not only spirits and the Avatar can possibly know.

True, their hardiness meant they submitted stoically to whatever changes came their way, trusting on their fellow People to hold them up as they would do in return; for each man, woman and child was but a pebble, that when combined would form the single surface of hard, packed earth that resisted all.

Young Toph would never in her life succumb to that collectivistic attitude; there was much of a moving landslide to her than of any other Channelers before, save perhaps, a previous Avatar. Even then, she was merely only a secret channeler of earth, and the Avatar was the Avatar. Her constant companion, a little sprite she'd christened Arr, though the spirit had a name of its own, would remark that though blind, Toph could peer into the spirit world as much as any Avatar.

Toph figured it was just one of those flattering things the sprite said to have her treat it to some Rock crystals whenever she "went for a stroll".

_The Channelers of Fire were the closest there were to being human._

Like their patron, their living spirits smouldered in the world, filling it with a heat that consumes itself as much as it tries to consume others.

They embodied action, industry, ingenuity – the entirely human way of filling their mundanely short lives with motion, with a meaning that transcended their existences. Humanity's frailness ensured that it would return to ash one day, and the Sovereign People were determined to fill each minute, every second with action, with purpose.

They seized the day. Other times, they just seized.

They could claim to be the most developed Peoples, for while the Earthers clung to their farms and the Waterers their fisheries, and the Airheads ate flavored air and called it food, the People of Fire learned to create things that created other things in turn. Through the extant wills that called them to push forward, they soon created things that could destroy.

Unknown to all but their own Sages, they were the most fragile People, for like the living Flame they embodied, their lives hung on the barest whisper of chance – should a strong breeze, or a splash of water, or a little bit of dirt overwhelm them, they would be lost, snuffed out in the darkness.

But theirs was also the most noble of spirits, empowering a Will that looked to the future, that strove against the perils of the world as much as it hung on them. On their backs would be laid the future. Some knew and recognized this fact.

With each breath, the flames in the Royal Chamber stirred. The Fire-lord (an honorary title, also affixing a dash in the middle, for the People rightly feared the _Firelord_'s wrath) regarded his advisers from behind a plume of smoke, perfumed by braziers that hung behind him. The firelight seemed to bathe him in a prodigial manner, making him seem benevolent at some times, and malevolent in others.

For now, the Fire-lord reflected on what his generals, admirals, vice-admirals, ministers, high officials and governors had each told him, in minute detail, of their constant failures and misdemeanors. It was up to him to pass judgment, whether to wreath the entire chamber in the fires of his companion, consuming them in an instant, snuffing out their flames; or to allow them to pass out of the room in peace while he would sit smouldering upon countermeasures and new plans.

His totem, a Royal artifact that hung on his neck, glinted, the golden-trimmed thing carved into image of the Royal spirit of the Fire-lords, a phoenix that would never die, like the People's Will should be. _Garuda, _he had named it, upon his ascension, when the Sages had bequeathed upon him the amulet, ripped unceremoniously by them from the previous Fire-lord. Though the Leader's Spirit would be extinguished, his faithful companion would not, and would rise from the ashes many times to serve the next Fire-lord.

Garuda waited, as patient as an Earther, fuelling the flames that bathed the chamber, in accordance with its master's commands. And as his master spoke, it wrapped its form around his shoulder, an invisible act that only the Fire-lord could sense, could react to, could smile to. The ruby captured within the heirloom shone brighter than the flames.

The other old men in the room could fancy seeing the form of the Royal spirit appear behind their ruler in a brief instant, a flash of wings spread out infinitely, before the inferno swirled around their ruler's seated form, seemingly consuming the man but not really burning, and the relatively unharmed Fire-lord spoke from within the wreath of flames with all the authority of his position. The Fire-lord speaks: let his Word inflame us all.

Miles away, a solitary old-fashioned steamer plugged away at the waves, carrying a bevy of People of the Flames within it. It was a brave thing, to stand alone surrounded by its opposing element, but its occupants were driven by a mission.

On top of the deck stood an aged man of the People, and the astute sage could say that he had lost much of his fire; but it was not all gone, for it smouldered in the depths of his soul as embers – ready to flare up if need be. He was supposed to have been the Fire-lord, after all, his royal frame marked by an august presence that radiated mastery. He even had an amulet, but this was not the heirloom, it was a simple memento from his son.

He stood with eyes closed, listening to the voices carried through the howling breeze, his hands poised above the amulet as if it was a fire that warded of the cold. His brow was awash with sweat, and his wrinkles dug deep grooves on his already marked face.

The old man patiently listened to the wind, whose spirits mostly did have nothing to do with his People. But some other spirits lingered, and some were talkative, and to these the old man listened.

His first and last companion, a cranky old spirit who perched unseen on his shoulder, leaned in and whispered something in her companion's ear. The old man stirred, opening his eyes and turned towards the door that led to the lower decks. It opened with a rustborn screech, and there a young man stood, the marks of sleep still evident on his face.

The old man gave a greeting, and he received a glower in return. The young one looked towards the aft, seeing miles upon miles of ocean stretching far away into the misted horizon still. Grunting impatiently, he slammed the door shut as he turned back, ignoring the offers for tea. His little wisp of a companion gazed at the old man's, and an unheard conversation took place, spoken in words that only spirits knew. The old man sighed, pained for a moment, but knowing as any old one that young flames must not be fanned rigorously.

The wind stirred the old man's gray hair, and as the old man returned to listening to it, the breeze intensified almost abruptly, battering his form with relentless abandon. Then just as abruptly, it vanished, and no wind came to talk to an old man for the rest of that day.

_The Channelers of Air were the closest there were to being human._

The People were said to be the last to accept the spirits, in an age long ago; for even in their primitive states, they had already achieved the capacity for mystic might. Their monks had achieved nigh-perfect mental form, attuning their minds to the natural, while their warriors had developed a lifestyle and society that brought forth numerous rewards for little effort. Bonding with the spirit realm didn't dampen their powers, but augmented them to arguable effect.

The most laid-back of the Peoples, the Air People lived their entire lives in constant motion, never staying in one place, or in one mindset all throughout. To the nomads were born the greatest thinkers of any age, surpassing even the theorists of Fire, to their chagrin. Over time they developed precepts, concepts, principles and philosophies that were just as easily discarded like feathers in the breeze, as the People flew through the winds of time. What was essential to them was the human need for freedom.

They had a capacity for trickery, and fickleness, as their patron represented, the unruly, capricious Lord of the Four Winds. They were quick to anger and quick to cool, and quick to crack a joke as much as they were quick to reprimand them for impropriety (those were usually the bad jokes).

As a consequence of their nature, they became the most fragmented people, with no true place to call home. Only the Northern and Southern temples, perched on the highest peaks and cliffs in the world spoke of a home, and only the oldest and youngest of the Nomads spent their time there. The rest went below and travelled endlessly, beholding: the smoke-choked metal spires of the Fire Nation, the ice-colonies of the Water Tribe and the labyrinthine Earth Kingdom cities built and packed into the earth. Ever they strived to prove themselves aloof, never spending too much time nor forming too deep bonds with the people and places they met; because such was their nature.

_Ao _floated outside the barrier, as worried as any spirit could be for their companion. It tested the defenses again, as it had done many times for the past spirit-year, and yet again found itself repelled, like an insignificant insect when confronted by the flame. The power that erected such a barrier was one that had always held it in awe. It was a vortex of strength. It held the wisdom of ages.

Many voices, some like and unlike it, called out to it, asking many questions. Fellow spirits of the air bid it well as they passed on by, The occasional sprite of fire gave the barrier a curious glance before being carried away, and then there was the clamor of many water spirit imploring it to move the thing that was an obstruction to their flow, begging it to be dispersed. They too, did not dare touch the barrier, fearing to be consumed.

Ao considered the glacier, floating freely above it, and wondered to itself yet. It wondered why it was the only one of the four who had escaped, who had spent the last spirit-year waiting, while the others slept on with its companion.

The water spirit, her companion's first spirit after her, had been the primary instigator of that fool plan. The waves had risen to engulf them, and she was the only one who had the foresight to escape the blue clutching claws.

The spirit of earth, who had been asleep, had been caught unawares, but even if it had, it could never had escaped while they'd been in the middle of the ocean. She was the only one fleet enough to escape.

The last to join, the fire one – oh she had been bickering with that one. It had always seemed to be angry at something: training, traveling, meeting people, obnoxious trainers, other spirits, more training. It too, had been sleeping, unprepared for its opposing element that had smothered it. She was the only one lucky enough to escape.

She'd been the only one to escape because she was Ao, spirit of wind. The people who'd bonded to her kind had been much like her, as she emulated them in turn. Beings of the Air. The Essence of the Winds.

Again, Ao knocked. And again, there was no answer.

Would she have to wait another spirit-year?

_The Channeler of All has only one name: Avatar, everlasting spirit, spirit of balance, master of the spirit-realm, He-Who-Walks-With-Spirits. _

_It can only exist as something far from being human._

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><p>Vivian's Note: Well now, this is my first offering as Vivian. Readers of Merlin's works will remember that he has his computer problems, and it's hell on him while his so-called ideas are stuck in his paper napkins, so he can't possibly write yet. It leaves me to do what I want while he sulks.<p>

Being the enterprising little goblin that I am, I've decided to convert his account for my use, Hey, he's been using my computer to upload his stories, and the account was also intended to be _joint. _If he wants it back, he should get his own damn computer.

. . . .though I gotta say, this story was originally a bunny of Merlin's. "What if benders were shamans? Would the martial artists be distinguished from the controller of elements?" I thank him in spirit for that, but this story is MINE. I intend to go through it my way. If he tries to steal this for his own, well – "delete account" is so easy to do.

This is just a one-shot, though I may expand this if reader-response is favorable. Unlike Merlin, I'll be needing that constructive feedback to continue on with this and any other story I'll be posting in the immediate future. Because unlike Merlin, I do have the intention to go into writing, something which Merlin treats as more of a hobby.

Vivian out, with the obligatory "RnR plox I kill cats if u dont"

Additional note: deleted story accidentally, reposting it without changes-


	2. childhood

This is a Vivian production, written by Vivian of "Merlin to Vivian'

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><p><em>1Water_

This is a story of childhood.

The Northern Tribe boasted the famous Waterways, of which the Southern Tribe was most envious of. It consisted of winding, bending streams of arctic water cutting through a single glacier. What made it particularly attractive was the glacier's lustrous quality, gleaming brightly even in the darkest, arctic nights.

And water tribe children especially loved to slide through the Waterways, screaming and holding out their arms in glee as they made the turns, slipping and sliding from the top all the way to the bottom, where they were deposited into the great Ocean below. Junior channelers and their spirits would the be quick to buoy the jubilant children back to shore.

Grudgingly, Hakoda agreed to take his children there, on advice from his wife. Little Katara could be quite temperamental when she was roused, and the last time she was, an entire glacier shelf had been sent to the Deeps. Poor Sokka had to face her mother's wrath, since he'd been given responsibility to watch over his sister. Hakoda had never seen his boy bawl so loudly like that before.

He was concerned in the aftermath, asking Kya if a rift had formed between the siblings, but she assured him that there was not, because Katara had come to Sokka in tears, apologizing in secret. Kya had watched with amusement from behind the whale-skin entrance flap as the two made up.

Stirred from his thoughts by an insistent tugging on his hand, he looked down and saw Katara pointing excitedly over the boat railing. Following her gaze, he and Sokka glimpsed the Waterways in the near distance, a giant diamond floating on the water. Surrounding it were a multitude of single and double-canoies, family rafts and boats, carried through the waves to the icy shore. With each wave they disgorged eager children dragging their reluctant families with them, laughing and gesturing around them.

He smiled to see his children's reactions. Sokka couldn't contain his excitement, and he and Katara watched, open-mouthed, the joyful children sliding down the streams.

He frowned though, upon seeing the entrance fee. He wished he could wipe the nonchalant look on that admission guy's neutral face as he grumbled many things, before his children's inquiries forced his hand to give the payment.

"You're all pirates," he said in an undertone to the guy, after he'd seen the two to the top. He beamed and waved at them as they did the same from the edge above, before disappearing into the glaciertop. Then he frowned again, "It wasn't this high when I came here with Papa before. It's practically a. . . something percent increase!" He crossed his arms.

Then he recalled something. He was the freaking chief of the Southern Tribe, damnit! Veteran of many battles, hero of a thousand skirmishes, the defeater of pirates, the scourge of the South! The admission should've been free! (which included him, and its absurdly abhorrent adult price, even though he wouldn't be using the Waterways) He looked around at the other guardians, who all seemed focused on watching their children or talking amongst themselves. Not one of them seemed to recognize him; he wasn't sure if it was a good or bad thing.

"And that was like, ten years ago, maybe?" the guy said, unfazed, nor apparently aware he was talking to the Southern Chief. "Even if you were somehow the chief, sir, you'd still have to pay up. This isn't a charity movement. Besides, have you seen the prices of fish lately? That sharkson Gotou's driven it up for the fourth time this month! A man's gotta eat, eh?"

As they bickered afterwards, Hakoda continued to keep his eyes on the glacier. Sokka was holding his sister's shoulders, seemingly pulling her back, watching the slides carefully while Katara was struggling to escape his grasp.

Suddenly, a cold breeze blew, and they both toppled, landing in a heap on one of the streams where they began to slide slowly down. Hakoda started violently, leaning forward with every muscle tensed as he watched his only children tumble through.

"It's fine, sir." He whirled on the bucktoothed attendant who smelled vaguely of pearl teeth whitener. "My children are in danger! Don't you dare-"

The attendant pointed languidly, looking very much the bored employee. Following his finger, Hakoda saw his two children now, laughing and waving their arms in the air excitedly as a funnel of water surrounded them, enclosing the two in a protective, blue-veiled cocoon as they slid down the streams to relative safety. The chief recognized the signs, and he took a deep breath of relief.

"That happens to first-time parents all the time here. They all start to get second thoughts, get prissy with the staff because of nonexistent safety concerns, al the while forgetting the most important thing." He turned to see the attendant walk away, intercepting another wave of harried parents.

"'The spirits are here, the spirits protect us.' Even joyrides use channelers now?" Hakoda crossed his arms, watching as several of the new arrivals' eyes widened upon (finally) recognizing him. Not that he wasn't guilty of the same thing; they were very handy when it came to discovering sunken settlements under the sea, a vital addition to the southern tribes' wealth. He waved, causing a few to bow their heads in acknowledgement. The attendant looked over to him. True, the spirits were unfathomable at times, but their loyalty to the tribe was unquestionable. Especially if there were channelers there to befriend them.

He could distinctly hear his children's footsteps padding excitedly over to him. Hakoda rubbed his forehead; he was way out of his depth, spiritual things like these were best left to his wife or Gran-Gran. He was a mere soldier, unblessed by the channeling streak but blessed all the same by the Tidehunter's bounty.

He gave a silent prayer to the sea that moment, and all its bounty and wonder, for giving him these moments. He would give a hundred- no, thousands of pirate bounties to preserve it, to feel the all-encompassing closeness of his family every day. But most of all, he thanked the spirits who were unseen but were always there, watching.

He bent down to pat each of the laughing sibling's heads on the head. Maybe he could try riding it with them when they went up again – his dad _had _done the same.

_2/Earth_

This is a story of childhood.

As always, the marketplace was packed. Hawkers shrieking prices out at passersby, merchants arguing over a brass weight, peddlers filling up every inch of the sidewalk as they spread every manner of trinket on their cloths, badger moles roaring to the side, carrying bulks of merchandise to and fro. There was a buzz of activity as the hubbub persisted, the sounds intermingling with each other to reach a resonating chorus. Here and there perched a fruit peddler, there a cabbage peddler blocking up the street, and shifty-eyed purveyors of carved idols of the Stonemother grinning impishly at passersby. They were noisy, each trying to outdo the other. The spirit-realm wasn't silent as each roared and bumped against each other like belligerent stags, protecting their hosts with their strange powers.

Toph Bei Fong loved it all. It was too bad that she would never allowed to be out there.

"Make way, make way!" the driver shouted over the noise, waving a hand frantically as he dragged the family carriage through all the chaos. "There goes a nobleman's carriage?" "Are those the Yun family's?" and other whispers reached her sensitive ears, but soon they were whisked away by the noise. There was a bump and Toph rolled to the side, carried by the motion, and she was satisfied to get closer to the carriage windo, where most of the noise was filtering through.

The smile slid off her face as she was dragged non too gently back to the center by her mother, who patted her hand nervously as she was set back in place.

The carriage stopped, when her father poked his head out to look, all traffic in the street had ceased because of an overturned cart. Their driver bowed apologetically while taking the time to rest and stretch his overworked arms.

Almost immediately, like hungry street dogs that had been thrown scraps, a mob of peddlers and sellers surrounded and clamoured around the carriage, presenting their wares for the people inside to see.

Toph smirked secretly when she heard her father curse and shake his fist at the peddlers, shouting "peasants" while her mother hugged her closer, as if she was afraid that thieves would reach in through the crowd and steal tiny Toph.

As for the young girl, now that she was completely surrounded by the voices, she felt a thrill creep up her spine. Here was activity, unhindered, free. She so wanted to see their faces, or at least to touch and feel the things they carried with them, all of which sounded wondrous to this young girl.

Her companion drifted lazily to the side, keeping out of sight from all others, as was its nature as a spirit. Toph made as if she was peering out from the crook of her mother's arm, and she smirked to hear the crowd's entreaties now directed to her.

"Really now!" Her mother remarked irately, and Toph could feel her heartbeat pound steadily in her ear as she beheld the multitude of sounds. She smiled in the darkness of her mother's bosom.

_Maybe next time_, she thought. _Maybe what time? _Arr interjected sleepily in her ear.

_3/Fire_

This is a story of childhood.

The harsh grating of gears greeted Zuko's ears as the doors to the refinery swung upward before him. Uncle Iroh squeezed his shoulder before walking on ahead, leaving him gaping dumbly as the heat slowly wafted out of the opening towards his face.

"Don't just stand there, Zuzu, go on in!" His sister prodded him impatiently from behind. Zuko gulped, and only took a step forward after Azula'd grunted and went on ahead, disappearing into the uncertain haze of orange-and-black.

The strumming of metal grinding against metal was what Zuko heard first, along with the fwoosh of steam rushing through the overhead pipes and the pneumatic hisses of the machines arrayed all below him. Yellow-tinged smoke rose before him, and Zuko had to wave them away with his robed arms as futilely raised his arms before him. Through the clearing haze, he glimpsed the backs of his uncle and sister, marked by the golden highlight and royal red of the Firelord. The smell of soot immediately clung to his nose as he took another step.

"It's certainly a pleasant surprise to hear you were assigned here, old friend-" he heard his uncle say when he reached them. He didn't see the person Uncle Iroh was talking to; in here the smoke became so thick that he coughed and clawed at his stinging throat.

"Can't handle a little smoke, Zuzu?" Azula was leaning on the railing, staring down onto the machines down below. Zuko flushed, remembering it was his idea to bring himself and Azula along with Uncle Iroh.

It was a foolish, he knew that now. He was never yet able to handle a lot of heat like all royalty should. Sweat broke out from his pores at the merest whiff of heat, so much so that his mother would remark that he was the "coolest" heir in the history of the Fire Nation line, which Azula remembered with glee, never letting him forget that fact whenever she touch him with her fire-heated hands.

He burned with humiliation now. The refinery wasn't all that interesting, at all, even though his tutors remarked how it was the "invention of the ages", and the "way to the future", decorating their words with such flourish that he couldn't help but compare it to a trip to the beach.

A beach was hot, too, but there was no smoke, and it wasn't _this _hot.

"I wonder how you're gonna handle getting your first spirit, Zuzu." Azula remarked, extending her foot into the air and waving it over the rising smoke. "It's said to be a _very, super intensely hot _event, and you also know how the spirits can't tolerate wimpiness like yours. You're gonna be _burned. _I mean, if all your sweat doesn't already turn the spirit off-_"_

"At least I don't have to wait a year to find out," Zuko shot back, and watched with pleasure as her face twisted. It was good to be older, sometimes.

"-but maybe we can talk more freely next time, over a soothing brew of purples, I'm afraid the smoke's getting in the eyes of the little ones. . ." Zuko felt a gentle tap on his arm and looked up at his uncle's face, hidden in the clouds like the distant mountains in mist. Yet he could still see his smile. "Let's head to the shopping districts then, best not to keep your cousin waiting. . ."

_4/Air_

This is a story of childhood.

"The Highest Place in the World" was an endlessly debated topic among the masters. It was a highly subjective point which each and everyone of the bald, not-so-bald, but universally aged men and women argued time and again, pointing to their own experiences and the scrolls of long-sublimated masters as proof. It was not so serious a topic as eternal life, or the issue of harnessing steam as a viable air source, but it was an issue to discuss nonetheless, if not simply for the fact that no true conclusion was ever reached, not in this time, and certainly not centuries ago when the debate had first arisen between the Twin Masters.

Master Gyatso, Aang's own assigned mentor, insisted along with a couple of other masters that the highest point existed on a spot in the Eastern Temples, where the air bisons bred. He had his sources from the scrolls of the explorers Sagar and Rajh, and had also personally measured it from its base to the summit, reaching ten thousand or so meters.

Western Temples adherants claimed that its proximity to the Throne of the East Wind made it suspect, as the East Wind could play tricks on the mind, and certain malicious air spirits could make distance seem suspect in the eyes of even a master. Not that they accused Master Gyatso of being addled in his mind, which Aang was perfectly willing to claim was true. To a certain degree.

After his daily meditation sessions, the young initiate entered his master's chambers, careful to coast over the childish traps that snagged the unwary. Aang found his master floating cross-legged in midair, a longish scroll laid before him.

"Master Gyatso. . ?"

"Ah, Aang, good to see you. I'm just about through with this latest dissertation on the 'Highest Point' – I'm willing to stake my sanity on its being true." Gyatso sucked on the tip of his pen. "How's your thesis coming along? Do you require aid on some points?"

"No master," Aang bit his lip, turning away on the pretense of preparing tea. "Your advice is used with gratitude."

"I'm very shocked," the Master continued as he restarted writing, "Appalling, really, to accuse me of being addled just by inferring from my experience. Inferring? Did I not measure it? And they accuse the East Wind like superstitious idiots. As if I could ever miss seeing malicious spirits about me! I'm sure my contingent of fellows would know if they saw another spirit come close before." A brief gust surreptiously stirred up Aang's robe as he turned back carrying the tray of tea. "And now they require another dissertation. . . well this is the last time I'm humoring those old coots, next time they pull this argument I'm dragging the lot of them to the Point! Let's see them 'reason out of experience' then!"

Gyatso paused to thank Aang for the tea, which the former sipped gratefully, before allowing it to float in midair beside him. "Thank you Aang, just the right thing to cool off my nerves. By the Four Winds! I've too much time on my hands if I've stooped to creating _this _to settle some debate. Another piece of wisdom for you Aang: never argue with crotchety, irritable old masters! It's going to shorten your lifespan!"

"Yes master," Aang allowed himself a brief smile before schooling his face to stillness.

Gyatso sighed, dipping his pen into the inkwell and pausing. "Maybe next time Aang, I'll take you for a week to measure my Point, it'll make for a fine first piece of literature for you. " The master smirked at Aang. "And maybe, finally, you can show those coots how _much _better experience is!"


End file.
