(no subject)
Two years and a handful of days have gone by -- by some measure of time or another -- since Zuko walked in the door to the bar. He couldn't tell you that happened or what date by the Bar's calendar, or honestly even care. It's simply become a part of life.
Strange things have happened; he finds himself between Christmas of the one world and a tradional holiday of his own appraoching here (but ages off in his own world; it's summer, not anywhere near new years, Chinese or otherwise). He got gifts, but gave none.
Sylar took his gift for ill; maybe, perhaps, he doesn't know. But still, it was a good trade, he thought -- now he's uncertain.
So now he works himself, melting snow in a broad circle around his bending practice, working up a sweat that steams, sublimating snow to vapor with each flame trailing axekick and knife hands that sear the air.
Strange things have happened; he finds himself between Christmas of the one world and a tradional holiday of his own appraoching here (but ages off in his own world; it's summer, not anywhere near new years, Chinese or otherwise). He got gifts, but gave none.
Sylar took his gift for ill; maybe, perhaps, he doesn't know. But still, it was a good trade, he thought -- now he's uncertain.
So now he works himself, melting snow in a broad circle around his bending practice, working up a sweat that steams, sublimating snow to vapor with each flame trailing axekick and knife hands that sear the air.