(So... that remake, huh?)
Spyro was frustrated.
More so, Spyro was both frustrated and tired. He'd been desperately trying to sleep for several hours, all four limbs splayed out flat as he rested on his stomach on the peak of a haphazard pile of glimmering gems. The smooth stone walls echoed with the sounds of gentle and… not-so-gentle snoring from the other dragons sharing the cave, each curled up atop their own mounds of precious stones and gold. Spyro adored the sensation of sleeping on gems, as stereotypical as that may be; the gentle warmth exuding from their polished surfaces reflected his own body heat, forming a barrier against the elements that fire just couldn't beat. Sure, he occasionally got jabbed in the back by a particular sharp point if it managed to breach the tender flesh between his scales, but it was so much more satisfying knowing that the pile of gems belonged to him and no one else. Each one had been collected from his travels across the realms, and although it didn't hold a candle to some of the elders' hoards, Spyro loved it all the same.
Speaking of which, he quietly manoeuvred himself onto his back and wriggled himself deeper into the pile of rocks, determined to find a comfier position. The quiet tinkering sound of gems bouncing off the exposed stone on the floor reverberated across the room as they were shed from the pile but did not rouse any of the sleeping dragons. He'd been struggling with peaceful sleep for a little while now, and even the subtle glow of the gems couldn't help lull him to slumber. Crossing his arms over his chest he closed his eyes tighter and tried to count sheep.
What started as an exercise to rest his mind turned into a fantasy revolving around shooting down sheep in flying saucers, causing his blood to boil. Spyro had been concerned about himself for at least a couple days, and couldn't seem to shake the blues that had been following him around. Sparx had noticed that he hadn't been his perky, cocky self but hadn't said anything, trusting that Spyro would come to him when the time was right.
Now, Spyro was frustrated, tired, and bored; a combination which never ends well.
He had been bothered by a passing comment made by one of the inhabitants of the other realms. Neither face nor name came to mind when trying to recall the individual in question, just another member of a species that he had safeguarded in his quest against the Sorceress. Spyro had kept his promise to Bianca to convince the dragons to return to the Forgotten Realms, a name which now seemed ironic at best, although it had taken very little effort on his part. A permanent portal was already active between the Dragon Realms and Avalar, so the dragons had all but jumped at the opportunity to repopulate what had originally been their ancestral home, with some families up and moving their entire existence to the new lands within weeks.
Many locals were baffled at this, with the dragons having only existed in the dusty pages of forgotten story books as far as they were concerned, but they also brought their magic with them and the effects were quickly felt: long abandoned portals began to operate, parched rivers began to flow again, and even the polluted skies had begun to clear up. For all the dragons were initially a shock to the system for those who had not known that they existed for the last several thousand years, the benefits were staggering and breathed life into what was previously a world on the verge of death.
Of course, Spyro had found himself at the forefront of all of this. With the exception of only the oldest and crustiest of citizens, Spyro was the first contact with dragon-kind that any living individual had ever had, and so was given a role as a sort of mediator between the many species. Some of the more incredulous races had been reluctant to allow the dragons to encroach on what they viewed as their territory, but having the actual saviour of all worlds and the sole reason why they weren't currently slaving away mining gems in Crystal Islands under the tyrannous hand of the Sorceress present made negotiating a little easier. Although it took some convincing, and enough bribery to make Moneybags jealous, most of the mergers had been successful and peaceful.
Thinking of this caused a gloomy look to cross Spyro's face, his yellow pointed tail twitching in irritation. An inhabitant of one of the many indistinct magical worlds had been particularly unhelpful, shutting down any opportunities to offer an proverbial olive branch and resolve their differences. The dragons had left defeated after it became apparent that this particular world was not going to open itself to the possibility of friendship or even vague acquaintanceship. Spyro's charitable deeds were widely known, but this didn't guarantee any level of trust from the inhabitants, especially those who had already preordained their stance on the situation. It was not an overwhelming problem – there were already more than enough realms welcoming the dragons with open arms and baited breath – but something that the individual had said had been passing through Spyro's mind since he caught it being uttered under muffled breath.
"Bit brutish for a so called 'Artisan', eh?"
Spyro let out a small exasperated puff of smoke from his nostrils and pulled himself from his futile doze, wincing as his shoulder blades cracked as he stretched his wings. This was a question he was not unfamiliar with and had pondered himself over the years, even before he had found himself yanked into peril time and time again. He knew he was hatched and raised within the tranquil fortifications of Stone Hill, but the other Artisans were almost like a different species altogether. The majority spent their time in quiet seclusion slaving over their chosen trades, producing staggeringly beautiful works of art and craftsmanship that were strongly sought after across the realms by all kinds of collectors and aficionados. The only exception being Darius, whose impromptu bouts of deeply 'passionate' poetry recitals could be heard from the next Homeworld over. At least he was enthusiastic.
He ungracefully slid down the side of his hoard, arching his back and stretching his legs out in front of him as his feet hit the frosty stone floor, the crackles coming from his joints leaving a satisfying ache as his body woke from rest. Sparx was already sluggishly buzzing around the room, dazed from being woken so suddenly and at such a late hour. Spyro had hoped to sneak out on his own but he had known better than to think that his dragonfly friend would sleep soundly while he cavorted off to other worlds.
"Come on, Sparx," he muttered, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to clear his hazy vision. "I want to speak to someone."
That was, if he could find him. Nestor had become notoriously difficult to track down these days.
For all Nestor had not been surprised when Spyro had approached him, he was not expecting it to happen so soon.
Nestor was already the leader of the Artisans well before Spyro's egg west presented to him during the last Year of the Dragon. The Magic Crafters had always been the ones to care for the unhatched eggs after they were delivered by the fairies: the deep saturation of magic that permeated every inch of the Homeworld proved vital to the development of the unhatched dragons, and the local fauna were mostly harmless, barring the giant metal spiders in the caves. Nestor was not on the most... amicable of terms with Cosmos, the leader of the Magic Crafters, and this had not changed even after he was promoted as leader of the Artisans, but he would not trust any other dragon with such a crucial role. Cosmos claimed to have no time for children of any sort, declaring their endless pools of energy to be nothing sort of perturbing and disruptive to his studies, yet he had a strict and almost fatherly disposition about him and had taken up the mantle ever since it was assigned to him, willingly or not.
Nestor still remembered the day that Cosmos bequeathed him the egg that housed the purple dragon. The Magic Crafters would sort the eggs shortly before their hatching date to determine which Homeworld they should be raised in based on their inherent magic signature. He didn't understand how they did it regardless of how many times the increasingly exasperated Cosmos had explained it to him, but the Magic Crafters had some way of deducing where an unborn dragon's talent would lie. No dragon was ever raised by their biological parents, with the job of nurturing the pups falling on the shoulders of every dragon in the Homeworld. Nestor himself would never find out which two dragons had spawned his egg, nor would any dragon, and he had no desire to discover this fact. This fragment of information was known only to the fairies that guarded the eggs before they were ready to be sifted by the Magic Crafters, not that he felt this matter held any weight in his actualisation as an individual.
He was informed that all of the clutches of eggs had already been dispersed to their respective Homeworlds, ready to be reared by those who shared their talents, all barring one: a single indistinct amethyst-spotted egg with no discerning features to set it apart from the other dozens of eggs already adopted into their new communities. With no details regarding lineage or the identity of the parents, it almost seemed like it had appeared out of thin air. Not even the fairies who delivered the egg could offer any insight as to the origin of the egg or its mysterious inhabitant - one of the few times that Nestor had wished the dragons regarded this knowledge as more than useless trivia.
Even more suspicious was its lack of magic signature: nothing about it matched any of the existing Homeworlds.
He had taken it under his wing, literally speaking, even though he had no idea if the dragon inside would evolve to be an Artisan like him. He knew the myriad of risks of his decision: a dragon raised by a community who was not his own kin could find himself without the ability to control their innate magic, which could and had led to disastrous results. Nestor still felt a tsunami of regret wash over him at the memory of the last dragon to fall to this fate, even after he had been banished to the Volcanic Isle after developing an unhealthy obsession with Dark Magic. But looking at the lonely egg and weighed down under the knowledge that the other leaders had turned it away had melted his heart. He would have been nought but the lowest of scum, lower than any gnorc, if he had left the egg to its fate.
Nestor almost cracked a smile at this memory before gently setting down his hammer. He had found himself aimlessly wandering Avalar and the Forgotten Realms after the portal had been opened, finding with surprise that his expertise with carpentry had made him an extremely valuable resource to many of the inhabitants of the new worlds. Presently he was deep in the impenetrable jungles of Idol Springs, insistently striving to educate the foremen on the proper technique for carving idols in such a way that they wouldn't spring to life and attempt a hostile takeover with... limited success. It was rough, hands-on work, but it paid well, and he would be a poor excuse for a dragon to reject any opportunity to add to the treasury. He couldn't even remember the last time he had stepped foot inside the Artisan Homeworld.
"How long have you felt like this?" he asked the smaller dragon, who was currently hunched over in an embarrassed stance, avoiding eye contact. Sparx was hovering nearby, casting a beautiful golden glow onto the surface of the intricately painted idols that he inspected, but Nestor could tell that he was listening in too.
"Just a couple of days," Spyro replied, sheepishly running his palm through the canary yellow spines on his nape. "I know you always say not to pay attention to what other people have to say about dragons unless they can prove that they know what they're talking about, but…"
Nestor sighed deeply before turning to face the dragon pup. He had been preparing what to say what this topic eventually arose for several years, but now that he found himself in the moment he couldn't remember the words he had planned. While he had spent many a night wishing that Spyro would eventually grow out of his overconfidence, a trait which was not helped by the praise endlessly showered upon him after his many treks across the realms, this was perhaps not the method he would have chosen.
"Spyro, what you're feeling is normal," the emerald dragon reassured, his words not entirely false. "Just because you're an Artisan does not mean that you can't possibly be good at anything else."
Spyro sat up a little straighter, his gaze more intensely focused on the older dragon as his words began to sink in.
"How many Beast Makers use spells created by the Magic Crafters to harness the power of electricity? How many Dream Weavers use scrying glasses made by the Artisans? How many Peace Keepers use weapons infused with magic?" Nestor picked up his hammer and resumed chiselling away at the half-formed idol. "The worlds aren't as black and white as you're making them seem, Spyro."
"I know that," Spyro responded indignantly, squatting on his hind legs and crossing his arms. "But I've tried all the different 'artisan' forms I can think of and I'm terrible at everything!"
Nestor suppressed a chuckle at that last point, his tail waving in amusement. He couldn't necessarily disagree with the small dragon. He was fairly certain that Tomas was still traumatised by Spyro's rendition of Green Sleeves on an electric guitar. Whatever Beast Maker had thought that prank would go over well had a lot to answer for.
"Alright then," he retorted, his attention resolutely fixed on the wooden figure. "If you feel so passionately about this whole thing then why don't I see if I can organise an internship with the other elders? I don't know if that will necessarily resolve everything, but maybe if you tried something different you'll find your calling."
Spyro immediately perked up at this, eyes lighting up and jumping to his feet.
"You'd do that?" he asked, barely restraining his enthusiasm. Sparx was now being frantically chased around by a pack of hula girls, some of which were living wooden idols. Neither dragon found this to be particularly alarming, considering everything they had been through.
"Sure," Nestor replied, smiling slightly to himself. He knew a couple of the elders would want to annihilate him for this, but he couldn't resist the pining of the purple dragon. The humour of the other leaders had not necessarily improved with age. Spyro practically launched into the air in joy, his wings almost a blur.
"Sparx!" he yelled, immediately drawing the dramatic chase scene going on behind him to a jarring close. "Pack our bags, we're going on a vacation! And hopefully no detours this time!"
Nestor turned away and inspected his newest idol as the duo charged away to prepare. It was not his finest work, having been interrupted part of the way through, but it still held a sort of captivating rustic charm. And it didn't come to life and attack him, which was an all too common occurrence in Idol Springs. He sheathed his tools in his belt and gazed wistfully as the storm clouds emerging overhead as the hula girls began their rain dance for the umpteenth time. He wondered if he should take a trip back to the Artisan home; he was the leader after all, and he hadn't visited the Homeworld that he was supposed to have authority over for far too long. Besides, he would probably have some explaining to do when Spyro started turning up at the other leaders' doorstep.
Shaking his head in thought he packed up and made his way indoors and out of the pattering of the rain. He should probably warn the others for what was about to hit them - they would probably need all the luck they could get.