Work Text:
Weary eyes cast furtive glances at pristine skies; lips as cracked and dry as the rice paddies recite urgent prayers. The shrine offerings have been replenished with dwindling supplies: fresh sticks of incense, the last of the lychee wine, and a slaughtered hen. Summer has never felt so relentless—no respite, no relief, no end to the reign of the sun, no–
Thunder.
A child spots them first, pointing and shouting with wild delight as the dark storm clouds roll in from the east. And with them come welcome visitors.
The lóng have heard their prayers.
There are eight of them in total. Each dragon has its own distinctive colour—rust red and sea green and snow white and more besides – and their scales shine with the iridescent beauty of a pearl, catching every ray of light. Upon their heads sprout crowns of antlers – tines stretching up towards the heavens—and their long whiskers whip about with every roll and turn. Majestic manes of gossamer hair frame their cheeks and fur decorates the lengths of their spines, before culminating in a fountainous plume at the tips of their tails.
They twist and tumble through the air like eels through water, flying without wings, riding invisible thermals with the undulations of their winding, serpentine bodies. Their flight is more akin to a dance; the lóng swoop and swerve around one-another with poise and purpose—never once coming close to colliding. As they fly closer the villagers can see their jaws spread wide in fanged grins, full of great power and undeniable joy. The grey clouds are towed behind them along a winding path, blotting out the sun and its scorching light.
One by one, the dragons let out a mighty roar. Lightning crackles. Thunder booms.
And the rain begins to fall.