A child, clad in ritual dress for as long as he can remember, hidden beneath a blank mask and a white robe.
He walks in a procession, guided by figures goading him on, in similar masks and robes. They tell him off when he looks away, stumbles, shows discomfort.
Then, one day, much older, he finds himself lost and seperated from the endless procession by a dark, foggy storm. And he realizes how uncomfortable he is, how uncomfortable he has always been.
He begins to wheeze and choke, suffocated by the mask and the robe. They're too restrictive, too tight. Shaped wrong for his face and body - the garb of something he isn't.
He looks at his hands and sees claws. And he uses them to cut the straps and ties holding the mask in place, that keep the robe wrapped around him,
And in a mirror-like pond, she sees a beautiful dragon, with beautiful, shining eyes. And she feels her wings unfurl, sees their glistening scales frame her.
And she cries, she cries tears of joy. This is who she is - who she always was. She was just never allowed to look, never given the chance to know.
But now she sees herself. And she's beautiful.
(This is a script/series of images that's been bouncing around my head for months now that I wrote out to describe to a friend.)