Fiction: Dragon Rider.
Inspired by this
***
He dreaded walking into the room where Shen Long rested. The musty smell of old paper, the intense odor of aged paint - and the feeling of great amber eyes watching him with interest. Dust motes danced in the lances of hazy yellow light. It was the eve of the Lunar New Year.
So, little one, have you come to wake me?
Of course he didn't really hear an actual voice, only the faint thunk-thunk-thunk of the ceiling fun stirring the warm evening air. The voice was the gentle hiss of sea waves, the shimmer of ocean green against his mind. He had heard this voice since he was a young boy, tagging along with the troupe.
He inhaled deeply, facing the source of the voice. A pair of large orbs, unblinking and stern, staring at him.
“Shen Long,” he replied, knowing his tone was formal.
What are you waiting for, little one? Shen Long's answer was brusque, almost a growl. The ocean green turned into a murky rain storm.
His hands reached up and pulled the protective plastic cover, peeling it off carefully. There was a rumble, as if from the bones of the earth, as Shen Long stretched his body inch by inch. The light danced across an iridescent body, covered with silver-blue sequin scales, curled up at the moment, like a coiled snake.
Are you ready to ride me? The voice was amused now, almost condescending.
Yao clenched his fists, bristling at the tone. “Yes.” Another deep breath. “Yes, I am.”
~*~
The drum beats reverberated, throbbing through the shopping mall like an earthquake. Shen Long slid into the modern foyer in a silverish wave, dancing to the drums and the cymbals. A crowd had gathered to watch the dance, children covering their ears at the din.
Dance, Shen Long's voice was the sound of spring thunder. We dance the bad luck away.
Yao gripped the pole, his palms sweating. Lung tao. Dragon head. Shen Long's power tugged at him, compelling, like leashed lightning.
Dance!
Shen Long circled the foyer, claiming his territory, sniffing the nodes of bad luck out like a hunting hound. Yao knew that the nodes existed. He could feel them: dark pools of stale luck. Like clogged drains, festering with dead things.
Now!
Yao felt pulled along now, Shen Long taking over the dance as he always did. Shen Long began to loop, cork-screwing while he drew out the bad luck. Streams of blackness - invisible to the crowd - streaked towards Shen Long who spiralled skywards, spinning the blackness into a tight ball.
So much bad luck, Shen Long growled, a small-scale thunder storm, dancing around the black ball like a cat playing with a toy. He hissed, the cymbals clashing, his scales clashing: the sound of war.
More spinning now. Yao/Shen Long drew down the colors of the sun, mixing them into the ball. Something was happening now, the black crackling, warring with the bright gold. As Yao/Shen Long danced, the black disappeared, replaced by the solar gold. Laughing with triumph, Shen Long chased the gold ball around. There was applause. But Yao did not hear it. All he knew was the rustling of spring rain and the roar of a waterfall.
The drum beats slowed and Shen Long sent the good luck back into where they belonged. There was a smugness in the dragon's body as Yao steered him back outside. The blast of the afternoon heat woke Yao up from the after-dance euphoria, the sun shining into his eyes. He realized, after a while, that Shen Long was looking at him. He recognized that look, ever since he witnessed his grandfather dotting the eyes with black ink, imbuing the dragon form with the essence of the tin lung. And Shen Long wasn't exactly Shen Long's real name.
You are a good mortal, Shen Long said, settling down to rest. His voice faded into a murmuring of sea greens. He would sleep, until Yao roused him for the next dance.
Yao grinned, delighted. Considering Shen Long's lofty standards, that was a compliment.
He settled down too, sipping ice-cold mineral water. There would be another dance in the future.
Pronunciations:
lung tao: pronounced as lee-ung ta-ow.*
tin lung: pronounced as tee-in lee-ung.*
* - Cantonese.
***
He dreaded walking into the room where Shen Long rested. The musty smell of old paper, the intense odor of aged paint - and the feeling of great amber eyes watching him with interest. Dust motes danced in the lances of hazy yellow light. It was the eve of the Lunar New Year.
So, little one, have you come to wake me?
Of course he didn't really hear an actual voice, only the faint thunk-thunk-thunk of the ceiling fun stirring the warm evening air. The voice was the gentle hiss of sea waves, the shimmer of ocean green against his mind. He had heard this voice since he was a young boy, tagging along with the troupe.
He inhaled deeply, facing the source of the voice. A pair of large orbs, unblinking and stern, staring at him.
“Shen Long,” he replied, knowing his tone was formal.
What are you waiting for, little one? Shen Long's answer was brusque, almost a growl. The ocean green turned into a murky rain storm.
His hands reached up and pulled the protective plastic cover, peeling it off carefully. There was a rumble, as if from the bones of the earth, as Shen Long stretched his body inch by inch. The light danced across an iridescent body, covered with silver-blue sequin scales, curled up at the moment, like a coiled snake.
Are you ready to ride me? The voice was amused now, almost condescending.
Yao clenched his fists, bristling at the tone. “Yes.” Another deep breath. “Yes, I am.”
~*~
The drum beats reverberated, throbbing through the shopping mall like an earthquake. Shen Long slid into the modern foyer in a silverish wave, dancing to the drums and the cymbals. A crowd had gathered to watch the dance, children covering their ears at the din.
Dance, Shen Long's voice was the sound of spring thunder. We dance the bad luck away.
Yao gripped the pole, his palms sweating. Lung tao. Dragon head. Shen Long's power tugged at him, compelling, like leashed lightning.
Dance!
Shen Long circled the foyer, claiming his territory, sniffing the nodes of bad luck out like a hunting hound. Yao knew that the nodes existed. He could feel them: dark pools of stale luck. Like clogged drains, festering with dead things.
Now!
Yao felt pulled along now, Shen Long taking over the dance as he always did. Shen Long began to loop, cork-screwing while he drew out the bad luck. Streams of blackness - invisible to the crowd - streaked towards Shen Long who spiralled skywards, spinning the blackness into a tight ball.
So much bad luck, Shen Long growled, a small-scale thunder storm, dancing around the black ball like a cat playing with a toy. He hissed, the cymbals clashing, his scales clashing: the sound of war.
More spinning now. Yao/Shen Long drew down the colors of the sun, mixing them into the ball. Something was happening now, the black crackling, warring with the bright gold. As Yao/Shen Long danced, the black disappeared, replaced by the solar gold. Laughing with triumph, Shen Long chased the gold ball around. There was applause. But Yao did not hear it. All he knew was the rustling of spring rain and the roar of a waterfall.
The drum beats slowed and Shen Long sent the good luck back into where they belonged. There was a smugness in the dragon's body as Yao steered him back outside. The blast of the afternoon heat woke Yao up from the after-dance euphoria, the sun shining into his eyes. He realized, after a while, that Shen Long was looking at him. He recognized that look, ever since he witnessed his grandfather dotting the eyes with black ink, imbuing the dragon form with the essence of the tin lung. And Shen Long wasn't exactly Shen Long's real name.
You are a good mortal, Shen Long said, settling down to rest. His voice faded into a murmuring of sea greens. He would sleep, until Yao roused him for the next dance.
Yao grinned, delighted. Considering Shen Long's lofty standards, that was a compliment.
He settled down too, sipping ice-cold mineral water. There would be another dance in the future.
Pronunciations:
lung tao: pronounced as lee-ung ta-ow.*
tin lung: pronounced as tee-in lee-ung.*
* - Cantonese.