Wyncandel

Disclaimer: Artwork is not mine and property of its respective owner. Found here. Warning: ideologically sensitive (?), cultural unfamiliarity, possible misuse of symbols, reference to opinion. If you are Chinese or live in China and some element of the story offends you, please let me know. --- Tendrils of mist curled through the trees and down the mountain into the valley shrouded from view far below. A panda was chewing lazily on a green bamboo shoot. Somewhere in the distance a cricket was chirping, a sign of good fortune. All of these were familiar sights and sounds to the short Chinese man trekking through the green undergrowth. He

A wrapping, slithering river of pure blue winds out, unravels into the distant sands, through lush valleys and between the western mountains, to the far reaches of sight and fading into the distance. A figure is appearing in the distance, traveling along the road of blue silk, clothed in a toga stained in red and worn sandals. He carries a laurel and broken fasces. When he reaches the beginning of the road, he dons the laurel and pulls a fan from the depths of his toga—a familiar fan adorned in ancient calligraphy. He opens his mouth and speaks— "Serica," he says, extending the fan, "do not try to erase the past," and passes it to