Spyro has always been a good source of inspiration for me; feeling creative tonight I thought I'd put some of it on paper, and subsequently the interwebs. I hope you like this "Prelude" as I've decided to call it, and if you do, I'll keep going.
Prelude
"When I say the word 'Artisan's…'" A dragon says to another.
"I think of grass… and art." Says the other around a scratchy wheeze, "Green things, you know, in general." He searches the balloonist schedule, as if hoping that he had misread, and that a massive dirigible would soon lumber over the horizon.
"I think of smokestacks." The first then adds frankly. Looking down over the edge of the pier, he sees no reflection in the grimy water.
"We make things here, August." Smoke escapes the green dragon's mouth as he begins to pace, "It wasn't always going to be pretty. Welcome to the future."
"It's not that. I just think it's interesting that everyone tends to have this notion that the place they were born in is something that…" August tries to cut his claw through the water's sludge to see his reflection, "that… that it just isn't. I don't know, Gavin."
"Are you saying I can't draw? Cause I got like, a shelf of filled sketchbooks. I can draw the crap out of all the things." Gavin crouches, chest on the deck, poised to attack a seagull perched on the last plank of the pier, "Or am I not the right shade of green? Please tell me if I'm not 'Artisan's' enough for you."
"OK when was the last time you ever saw a sheep around here? And not the fake ones we got in school."
"Good point." As Gavin creeps with practiced form down the pier, the seagull struggles to peck the bits of ash from under its wing. "Remember when we changed the welcome sign to 'Fartisan's' to make fun of the smell of the new factory next door?"
August spots a fish shooting between the other piers. He laughs, "You loved nicknames…"
"The best part of that is…" Gavin spreads his wings, tattooed and about the width of the pier.
"Shut up." August warns.
"They always stuck, …"
"Don't say it." He warns again.
"Spyro." Gavin's wings roll forward to snap back to his tail, launching him nose-first to the end of the pier, and lifting much of the sludge from the water's surface. August can now clearly see the reflection of his skin—a deep shade of amethyst, his golden fin and brass horns, which colored him by the numbers straight from the pages of every legend and children's book. Save for August's silver-blue eyes, he was everything Spyro the Dragon was said to have been, right down to his size.
"MMmm fffmf?" Gavin says over August's shoulder through the mangled bird in his teeth. August stares blankly at Gavin without turning from the water, and before he can react, a heavy mess of spit, blood, and feathers lands on his nose and flashes into a butterfly. August tackles Gavin, who pushes him off playfully. The butterfly hovering between them is abruptly snatched by a blinding yellow blur, which flies out over the water. When their eyes came to, the two dragons see the balloonist's hulking Zeppelin just clearing the smog, which hovers over the distant water. It's usually comical bobbing and tilting was off today, however, and seems to hang lower in the sky.
"It's on fire." The smile had disappeared from Gavin's face. The two of them exchanged a two-second glance, and one out to sea. August swallowed for courage, and they both took off.