An Immutable Moot

"Children," said Pan's teacher, Instructor Bedelia, "the palace wants everyone to be on the lookout for the young princess's moot. It is white like when you see the moon through dark clouds, and its wings are green as leaves on a flower."
One of Pan's classmates, a know-it-all little girl named Cerebella, raised her hand. "But even though the moot is rare, don't most look like that?"
"That's true, Cerebella, but this moot is a Royal Moot, and it's special. It has golden veins in its wings and a circlet of coruscating silver in its fur."
The girls all marveled at the beauty of the princess's misplaced moot. The boys groaned at the palpable excitement for a stupid fluff beast. They all wanted their own fang beast, like a Lesser Manticore, or a Greater Tarantula. Either would have scared any of those girls to death.
"Instructor?" asked another girl as she raised her hand, "how would we even get ahold of the moot if we saw it?"
Bedelia thought about this for a little while. "Well, you could try calling its name."
Aeric, the rude boy, the son of the richest, most powerful farmer in the whole district, spoke up. "What's it's name? Something girly like Powderpuff?" All the other boys laughed, but Pan didn't think it was funny. Aeric was rarely funny, but always wealthy and often mean, which made him funny enough.
Of course, Bedilia did nothing. "Now, Aeric. I don't know what it's name is, but. Hmm. I seem to remember," she said as she flipped open her copy of Tobin's Bestiary. "Ah, here we go. 'The moot is also very fond of flute music, and will often fly from great distances to perch upon a flautist's pipe. This allows it to better feel the vibrations, and, if the player is especially talented, will jiggle with the music.' There." She closed the book, then opened it, remembering it was the subject of the next lesson.
When school got out, Pan knew he would be made fun of, and he was right. He was a bright boy, after all, and had little recourse on his walk back to his father's house.
"So you gonna play your little flute and rescue Powderpuff?" Aeric asked in his ridicule voice, the one he saved for people who were good for something besides being born into money.
"Probably not," Pan said.
"Why not? Because you're a loser? Yeah." said Bubula, Aeric's sniveling little cronie.
Pan had to listen to Aeric, but Bubula he could get away with a little. "Wow, you can have an entire conversation with yourself. All with knowledge you already have. Why not just sit at home with your thoughts? I'm sure they'll both be delighted."
"What do you mean by that, you little turd?" asked Bubula.
"You don't know the answer to that one, do ya?" Pan smiled.
"Help me out here, Billiam," said Bubula.
Billiam was a quiet, intelligent, popular boy. Which is to say, he did Aeric's homework and thus was not the subject of his ridicule. This approximated to popularity.
"Hm? Oh, yeah. Bubula's father actually owns land, while yours, Pan, can only work it. That good?" Billiam did not seem to care if this passed for a good put-down, and returned to his book.
At this, Pan turned and marched home as fast as he could without running. Behind him he could hear Aeric yelling, "You're just mad because it's true! It'll always be true!" Pan did not so much care about it being true, as everyone has to make a living. He just didn't like being ostracized for it.
When Pan reached his father's house, he dumped his book bag just inside the front door, grabbed his flute and went out the door. By the time he stopped walking, he was on the outskirts of Medic Field.