The Meeting of Two Warriors
Korra doesn’t remember much about Elder Sokka. She’d been very young when they met, and he’d been so very, very old. Older even than Master Katara, though only by a few years, his body bent and worn hard by a lifetime of travel and scheming.
She remembers his long-house, though; the layers of worn rugs, the jumble of strange, foreign furniture, scrolls piled on every available surface, tiger-seal walls draped in fiery silks. Old-fashioned in many ways, but seemingly crammed full of new ideas, the air thick with thought and the heady smoke of his fire.
If he had lived longer he might have taught her more than a few of his more groan-inducing jokes, taught her politics, the art of diplomacy, all the finer subtleties of strategy in wartime and in peace. Taught her to understand the way people think as easily as she understands the way earth grinds and fire roars.
But he didn’t, and she doesn’t. Not until much, much later, in a city of his own design, in the troubled shadow of a peace-time helped brought into being by his large, battle-scarred hands.
(might color this eventually, once I’ve recovered from doing a picture with an actual background for once, but this’ll have to do for now)