Rescued.
Chapter 1: Undying Rage
Spyro roared in anguish. He couldn't do it. Life was pointless. Now a large, muscular, well-built dragon of eighteen, Spyro had been fighting enemies for what seemed... eternity. The sorceress, Ripto, each attempt in practical vain, as they always returned. The last battle, simply a few hours ago, was brutal. Spyro bore the scars of previous battles over some his body, the worst of which went straight down, from above a scaly evbrow, over the eyelid, down to his cheekbone. His once brilliant purple scales were now becoming a dark blue as he matured. His wings were tattered and torn, and his tail had an awful chink near the end.
He roared once more, before lyng on the ground, sobbing helplessly. He, the Hero of the Artisan, was sobbing in anguish. Spyro roared again, tears rolling down his scaly cheeks. The overwhelming weight of his destiny had overwhelmed him. He coughed raspingly, and tried to silence himself when her heard a sireny voice.
"Spyro...?"
Ember. Flame, Spyro and Ember were the only ones to survive what was now know as, "The Great Slaughter," two long years ago. The slaughter was most unpleasant, and Sypro blamed himself for everything. Before two years ago, all was peaceful, quiet, excluding at odd villain disturbing his vacation plans. But that all changed one night. Darkness filled the air, while Spyro, Ember and Flame were in Dragon Shores. When they returned, each and every dragon's head was brutally chopped off. And that was the least of it all. No details but each and every dragon had been brutally, violently and gorily slain. Spyro blamed himself with a passion. It was then that he found the dagger. It was pure silver... and felt like it was his. He had used that dagger to created the scars on his wrists. The sky was always dark, the grass had a permanent red color, and powerful storms were a regular ever since. The Artisan Beauty was gone.
"Spyro... It wasn't..."
"Yes it was."
"Please..."
"No."
Spyro's happy-go-lucky attitude was a distant memory from the now depressed, angry Spyro.
"Spyro, you haven't been the same-"
"Would you be if your friends and family were killed without a hope of finding the murderer?"
"No, but I'd actually make an attempt."
"Ember, don't you see?"
Spyro stood on his hinders, something new. He was on a castle turret. He outstreched his arms, symbolising all he saw before him. Bloody grass and dark skies.
"Nothing will be the same again. Our lives are over. Spyro the hero is Spyro the zero."
"Please."
He felt something wet and warm on his shoulder. A tear. A tear from a fallen angel called Ember. Ember could only cry at the new Sypro. Flame had lost his rolemodel, thus spent a lot of his time doing nothing. Spyro turned to face her, and took her head in his hands.
"Please..."
She whimpered, begging.
"Be the Spyro I love again. Be the one with a posetive attitude towards everything. Be the funny Spyro. Be Spyro."
Be Spyro. That last words clung to the air for a moment.
"That Spyro died that day, two years ago."
"No he didn't. I can see him in your eyes. He's not dead. He's asleep. Wake him up, Spyro! Make him open his eyes! Make him smile!"
Ember seemed hysterical. Tears rolled down her face, and she mouthed words that fell away into nothingness. Ember ran back into the castle, leaving Spyro to consider her words. Was the old Spyro... still there? He doubted... but Ember was right about these things. Once more, her glanced back at the corrupted Artisans, then... walked away.