In a small tavern in the "former" Fire Nation colony of Yu Dao, a bedraggled, possibly concussed mainlander was chattering excitedly as he regaled a small crowd of drunks who had nothing better to do with his account of the Battle of Wulong Forest. He was not much of a story teller, prone to rambling and straying off track, and the stories of that battle had been traded back and forth for weeks, now, ever since the news of the Phoenix King's defeat, but his account provided an unusual perspective, and insight, into the battle.
Lee had been there, after all.
He had just gotten to the part where he had been ambushed by the three saboteurs lying in wait, having gone to great length in describing every detail of his assailants' features, when he was stopped by a scrawny old graybeard with a vaguely disgruntled air.
"I know that boy!" he shouted angrily, jumping up in his seat when Lee finished describing the dark-skinned young swordsman. "That's the Water Tribe boy who traveled with the Avatar!"
There were a few snorts from the other assembled personages, and one of the drunks skeptically asked the old merchant, "And how would you know?"
A dark look came into the man's eyes, and he simply snarled, "I'll never forget his face, or his friends' faces." Continuing, his voice barely above a hiss, "He's a menace to cabbages everywhere. The whole lot of them are!"
Normally such a proclamation would have earned uproarious laughter from the crowd, but at the dangerous expression on the man's face the mirth died away in their throats.
There was a heavy, pregnant silence for a moment, before one of the patrons finally ventured a nervous, "Well, anyone could say that one of the Avatar's buddies was there. 'S'just common sense, innit?" he said, and the others nodded in somewhat hesitant agreement. "Yeah! Anyone could say that," the man continued, more confidently. "But d'ya have any proof?"
The mainlander grinned. "What do you know about the Water Tribe boy?" he replied with a question of his own. He had a look on his face like he had been counting on this.
The crowd was quiet for a moment as they collectively mulled over this question. After a couple of minutes, one of the more recent arrivals, who hadn't had much to drink yet, spoke up.
"Isn't his sister the Waterbender? The Avatar's lover?"
One of the more haggard drunks nodded. "Yeah! And he were wunna them non-bendin' warrior types, 'ccordin' ter me cousin in the navy. Wit' a, what do they call it, a, a 'boomy-ranger', or summat o' the sort, weren't he?"
"You mean, the Boomerang Guy?" asked one of the slower patrons, to a chorus of nods and murmuring from the crowd.
"I thought he was Meat and Sarcasm Guy?" whispered another, but he was hushed by his drinking buddies
"Aye," said a grizzled-looking campaigner in one corner of the crowd, gaining the attention of the listeners. In that single syllable, he had spoken with such authority that they were compelled to take notice, his face and arms marked with countless old battle scars, and a sizable chunk missing from his nose.
"I've fought with tha sort before," he continued in a salty accent, "them scurvy, savage Swertings. Ach, they're a fierce lot tae reckon with, I'll tell ye tha'. Near lost me right arm to one o' their warrior types back durin' Azulon's raids. Let me say, ye dinnae want ter unneressimate a Swerting wit' a boomerang! nay unless ye've a death wish. And I pertickerly wouldna want tae face agin' summan like tha' boy what's said tae travel with the Avatar."
The old sailor paused, his eyes flitting from side to side. He had the attention of the whole bar now - even Lee was paying rapt attention to the veteran's rambling - and the crowd had by this point swollen to near twice it's earlier size. After a moment of breathless silence, the man continued, his voice scarce above a whisper.
"A swordsman, they say he be," he said the word with considerable weight, allowing the implication to sink into the minds of his new audience. "Them Southern Tribe warriors be able tae fight well enough wit' nary more than clubs and spears and them whatsit boomerangs. Fermidable enuff, I'd say they be. Ach, but this lad, this Boomerang Guy, he dinnae settle jes' fer tha', ach no.
"A Swerting wit' a sword!" he exclaimed wonderingly, "An' a magic one, a' tha', if half the stories're tae be believed. Able ter cut snicker-snack right through whatever ye please, easy as tha'. An' black as night, the blade be (or so they say), wit' a gilt handle an' magic spells an' all." The old man shook his head. "Ach, tha's naught I'd e'er want ter face. That'd be tae mooch ter ask o' an old man. Tae mooch ter ask o' any man what be in his right mind."
Having said his peace, the grizzled veteran reclined in his seat and took a drag of his pipe, letting the discussion return to the matter at hand.
The mainlander, Lee, grinned again, and he eagerly reclaimed the crowd's attention.
"Yes, that's right," he said. "This Water Tribe boy, this boomerang guy, he had a black sword. Everyone who's heard the stories knows that, right?"
There was some nodding and a general tone of assent from the various gathered drunks and rascals, and Lee's grin widened.
"Well, I just so happen to have irrefutable proof that he was there!" he declared proudly, before withdrawing a long, slender object from the depths of his tattered outfit. It was a sword, a jian of peerless craftsmanship. The blade was black, with a gilded handle, and the pommel was engraved with the image of a lotus. "This is the very sword the boy was using!" he proclaimed.
It had been pure luck that, when Lee swam ashore from being dropped straight from the airship's holding bay along with most of the other crew, he happened across this sword. The weapon had been embedded up to its hilt in the scorched and blackened trunk of a burnt and cracked oak. He almost hadn't seen it, at first, but while nervously looking for a place to do his business, he had been astonished to notice the ash-covered hilt sticking out of the charred, skeletal tree's trunk.
Of course, not being one to ignore such an opportunity when it's given to him, Lee had eagerly prized the weapon from the tree. And imagine his surprise when he saw it to be the same sword born by the Water Tribe boy!
But one of the worldlier, more cynical patrons scoffed at Lee's claim, saying, "If that is the Wet's sword - and that is one hell of an if - then why in the world would you have it, and not the Wet?"
Surprisingly, Lee was not the one who answered this question. Someone else was.
"The Wolf threw it," interjected a gruff, harsh voice. "He threw it to take out one of my men. The blade sheared clear through one of the airship's wings. Cut through tempered, reinforced steel like it wasn't even there."
The speaker, a man who had been up until then sitting at the counter, quietly nursing a strong drink, shifted the hood of his cloak from his face to reveal sharp amber eyes and a stern countenance lined with the passage of years. He had a short, black beard shot through with streaks of pepper-gray. Yet even as unkempt and bedraggled as the man was, he still managed to project an air of unmistakable discipline and authority.
"Who the hell's this Wolf?" one of the drunker patrons inquired as politely as they could manage in their heavily inebriated state.
"The Wolf is the boy, if you could not infer as much from context," the man replied curtly, "and the boy is the Wolf: Sokka of the Southern Water Tribe, one of the Avatar's original traveling companions, according to the reports. His armor bore the same clan markings as the armor of the Southern Water Tribe's current chief, Hakoda the White Wolf."
This name garnered some recognition. Hakoda, the leader of a band of Southern Water Tribe warriors, had been a known thorn in the Fire Nation's side during the last several years of the war. His daring, unconventional tactics and ferocity in battle had earned him a good deal of infamy, as well as the moniker of the White Wolf, and no small price on his head.
The man, seeing the crowd's reaction, pulled a water damaged scroll out of his pocket, unfurling it and showing its contents to the crowd. It was a wanted notice with the stamp of the previous Fire Lord, Ozai Azulon's son. On it, there was a sketch of the young man, giving his name as Sokka, along with a list of aliases, a general rundown of the offenses for which he was wanted, as well as a note that he was wanted 'alive, if possible.'
The man continued.
"As of my last briefing before the... incident... at Wulong Forest, I was informed that the boy was believed to be the son of the White Wolf after breaking him and two others out of the Boiling Rock-"
This earned a collective spit take from those patrons familiar with Fire Nation strongholds.
"That boomerang guy broke out of the Boiling Rock?-!" exclaimed one, who looked to be of heavily Fire Nation descent. "Ash and soot," he swore, "That's unbelievable! How could a kid do that?"
"By being crazy, I guess," reasoned another.
"That or some sort of tactical genius," agreed a third.
"Well, didn't he and those two girls take down the entire air fleet by themselves?" interjected yet another.
"There had to have been more," someone else protested disbelievingly.
"I only saw the three," said Lee with a shrug. "If there were more than that, I didn't see any."
And so the discussion progressed, and the seeds of a legend began to grow.
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