Well, I should've been working on homework, and I'm going to pay with my hours of sleep tonight. But I couldn't stop writing! It's meant to be a prologue to the first scene of Ninjago, where Kai and Sensei Wu meet. It's not finished yet, but as a first draft, it took me an insanely long time for just this. I'm trying to craft the style I'll use for the whole piece. Tell me what you think!
Wu sat motionless on a smooth stone floor, cut from the mountainside that surrounded his monastery. The course ends of a hundred white hairs wandered across his kimono. The flaps in his robes lifted from his chest, then returned with a brush that scarcely reached his ears. His age had yet to steal his senses. He could hear the breeze as clearly as he could feel it entwine itself around the shape of his ear.
He knew that the wind was different today.
A gust slid his conical hat to the side; he readjusted it with a slight nudge from his walking stick, then replaced the stick in his lap. When the wind moved his hat again, he removed it and placed it on the granite before him. Then he raised his face to the sun, inhaling, tasting, understanding the foreign air.
Then he felt an incessant cascade roll over him from above: sun rays, heat and light, forcing him into stillness, his head, his spine, his legs, an oppressive, enveloping pressure. It froze him in his position with a torrent of invisible fire, but it did not threaten Wu. Instead, Wu felt as though he were trapped in the sun’s gravity, being drawn closer and closer.
He exhaled; the force released him.
As it left, though, an ominous dread settled in its place. The wind intensified, a cold point that drove deeper than the hot constrainment he had experienced moments before. The warmth had surprised him. The cold concerned him. He could see through his eyelids that a shadow was uprooting the daylight, and when Wu opened his eyes, he watched as black, impenetrable clouds overtook the sun.
Another pressure took hold of Wu, this one consisting of grim memories and murky images, restricting his breath as he struggled to gain control. The weight of his past was not so easy to throw off as the light of the sun. His burden, peacefully absent for so long, was returning.
Wu rose now, with the wind pulling his hair and his beard towards the interior of the monastery, buffeting his body in an attempt to send him back to his seat. His white knuckles curled around the bamboo walking stick. He took a couple feeble steps, then strode deliberately to the wooden doors of his sanctuary. He opened the doors, and was met with a premature dusk: the landscape of Ninjago extended indefinitely in front of him, but it was as dark as it appeared at night, during what was only the waning hours of the afternoon.
Wu gripped his hat, and his staff even harder; it had served him well in battle. He hoped that it would never see a war again, but despaired as a violet light, familiar from a similarly dark day centuries before, flashed and lingered on the horizon.
Wu set his staff in front of him and stepped down onto the mountain.