darkSpyro

PART 1

The young Chronicler grasped at random at the books on his bookshelf. Finally, choosing one he recognized as unfamiliar, he tugged its spine and removed it from its secure location. It had been on the shelf long enough for dust to pile on the tops of pages. This dust mushroomed out, causing him to sneeze.

The cover gleamed with simple bronze decoration; much unlike the intricately ornamented books of most inhabitants of the Dragon Realms. Each shape on this book was jagged and squared. The blue light of the Celestial Caves bounced off of the cover.

How eerie.

This was just the type of book the unwrinkled hermit was after, however.

Days spent isolated on the White Isle had left him bored. He had been told that the previous Chronicler remained in this solitude for hundreds, if not thousands, years. The young dragon could not comprehend this. He missed his home. His family. It pained them that he would no longer be able to participate in person with their lives. Sure, he could project himself from crystals when he wanted to communicate, and he could read the stories of their exploits through their books. But his one-on-one interaction with those he loved was from now on, and forever, limited. The Chronicler needed an escape, and this odd book would provide him with one.

In the first few years of his confinement, the short-bearded dragon had learned that there were many different types of books in his library. The majority outlined the lives of creatures. Some were copies of works of fiction, some table after table of calculations; in fact, the power of the White Isles meant that every item written in the world would be duplicated and reside in his library. The Chronicler had spent many a day looking over the work of rushed students hastily scrawling notes and figures in their tomes. However, the type of book that currently caught his eye were those that articled stories from other realms.

Many of these stories were strange, almost incomprehensible. That was their appeal, after all. They opened the dragon's mind to other realities and helped him to forget the dullness of his life. His favorites were novels that described the life and times of strange, flat objects -- all shifting in size and color. There was no story there, and yet the absurdity entertained him.

The novel he had picked today fit somewhat into this category. Flipping through its pages, he could tell from sparse illustration that all of the characters were hard-edged and blocky; certainly not of this realm. What intrigued him the most, however, was the type of creatures that these characters were. Their strangeness made him chuckle. They appeared draconic, but stood for the most part on two legs.

After all, absurdity was what he wanted.

The Chronicler opened to a page in the book at random. Settling into a comfortable studying position, he followed the description as reads:


"The scent of cooking gently roused the young dragon from his slumber. He blinked and yawned as pixelated sunlight streamed from his window into his eyes. Stretching out on all fours like a cat, he mumbled:

"Morning already? But I just went to bed..." His voice was high pitched and rough. A little bratty, but equally cute.

He turned to gaze at his polygonal desk. On the side of the desk nearest to his own bed slept a small dragonfly, curled up on a cushion. The dragon gently nudged his friend.

"Come on, buddy. It's time to wake up. I can smell Dad making breakfast."

The tiny bug opened his eyes and stretched his wings before flitting to his brother-friend's side. He buzzed in agreement, and the two pranced down into the castle's simplified stone hallway. At the top of the rocky stairs, they stopped.

"I wonder what Dad's making..." The short dragon tried to peek over the stairway, but couldn't complete the action on all fours. He stretched tentatively on his hind legs, only to barely poke his nose over the structure. He sniffed, "Smells good, whatever it is. Hey, buddy could you check it out? If it's that trick bacon scented cereal again, I'm going to bed."

His companion rolled his eyes and flew above the stairway to check what was being prepared.

"Oh, good morning, my insectoid friend!" It was a deep voice accompanied by the clatter of cooking materials, "I have some butterflies for you."

With more pep in his wingbeats, the dragonfly abandoned his roomate before preparing him for his breakfast. The little dragon snorted and settled down from his attempted perch.

"H-hey, wait up!"

He hopped down each individual stair. Platforming when you are so tiny is difficult, even when you have gravity to your advantage. He did not look forward to hopping back up, but luckily, he wouldn't have to worry about this until after breakfast. In the kitchen was a tall purple dragon with a black-gray beard. It was "Dad", opening a simplified jar with a single iridescent butterfly inside. He popped the top off and released the winged creature, which the little dragonfly chased after.

"Hello to you, too," the adult dragon said, screwing the lid back onto the jar. "There're just enough pancakes left over --"

"Adger!" Another bipedal dragon, blue this time, rushed into the kitchen, "Why didn't you wake me up? I should have been in Dark Hollow hours ago..."

Adger placed the jar onto the counter, next to a plate adorned with pancakes. They oozed with a tempting smell that drew the young dragon in. He crept toward them.

"You're so cute when you're asleep, though," Dad smiled, handing the other dragon the plate. "But honestly, I forgot. At least take these on your way out, Argus."

Argus gave Adger a peck on the cheek -- gross, "Thank you, hon."

Argus tromped down the hallway and out of the doors of the castle, desperately swallowing an entire unchewed pancake. He could be heard coughing a little before the castle doors closed.

The little dragon rolled his eyes. Not only had Dad denied the young dragon his pancakes, now he was being all lovey-dovey! The disappointed dragon sighed. It was already pretty late in the morning. He doubted that he would have another chance to eat until noontime.

Unless... Perhaps some sheep roasting was in order?

He gestured toward the dragonfly with a nod of his head. Out of the corner of his pixelated eye, he could see Adger looking out at the door with his arms folded. He was smiling with the memory of Argus's desperate scene, but his eyeridges were pursed. The little dragon snorted as his dragonfly friend lazily flitted to him. They turned to follow Argus.

Adger was flushed out of his reverie, "And where are you going, Spyro?"

His voice was kind, but exasperated.

"You haven't even eaten, yet."

Spyro smiled a little sourly. Finally, someone had uttered his name, "Well, we're fresh out of pancakes, so I figured I'd go toast some sheep."

Adger raised an eyebrow, "And release more dragonflies while you're at it? I think Sparx is full."

On cue, the dragonfly landed lightly on Spyro's nose, glowing a healthy yellow hue. Spyro shook his head to knock his betraying friend off balance, "Can't he always... just eat more anyway? Maybe it'd give me an extra boost, too!"

Adger knelt down to Spyro's level and caught Sparx on his outstretched finger, "I don't think you'll be getting any extra lives that way until you're a bit older."

"What?"

The older dragon chuckled, "Never mind. You don't have to hunt any sheep, though. Let's make more pancakes instead. I have a feeling there're other Artisans who have yet to wake and would appreciate a nice meal as well."

Spyro paused.

"You're not in a rush for time, too, little one?"

He relented, "No, I guess I'm not."

PART 3

The Chronicler rolled his eyes and closed the book. This wasn't what he wanted! Where was the strangeness? The absurdity? The escape he wanted! This was just a sappy story of low-poly dragons making pancakes. He looked to the crystal in the center of his reading chamber. Sure, much of his detail was brushwork, but that and some limited lighting practically hid the fact that his model had edges.

Model -- what was he thinking? He was real. The only real thing in this world of tomes and time. His home in the White Isle was the nexus of information for the entire Dragon Realms. The Dragon Realms across all realms. In a sense, he was not only real, he was a God. A Dragon God. A god of ---

He shook his head, rattling the gem on his cloak. Again, what was he thinking! Perhaps isolation was driving him insane. The dragons who thought they were gods were the same dragons who committed the worst atrocities. He'd read of their falls. Izbih, Chillsliver Berrycrown, Mindhaunt the Controller. Even, his scales bristled, the mysterious Dark Master:

Malefor.

Malefor, the first purple dragon. The first of a line of likewise eternal beings. Locked away in Convexity, but ever present. It a story told to force young dragons to behave, but the Chronicler could feel the dark force watching him. The Chronicler was not a god. He was but a mite. Malefor -- Malefor was the true God of Dragons. Although the Purple One had been sealed generations before the Chronicler's birth, the effects of his atrocities still tore through the fabric of dragon society. The Mountain of Malefor, after all, still stood as a symbol of his infinite fury.

The Chronicler's first forays into his library had been on the topic of the Dark Master. He was fearful but curious when it came to the dragon's history; knowledge of the beast both protected him from the dragon and terrified him. Books on him were strikingly vague. They referred to writings too old to read in languages too garbled to understand. Until the gray dragon could find magic to restore the books, and the patience to learn their ancient writings, his understanding of the purple dragon's history was indistinct at best.

He really needed something lighter to read. Light and much more abstract than the previous tome.