A/N:

Among the other things you'll be doing today, why not spend some time suffering in silence as you wonder what kind of ass fuck sideways update schedules I'm somehow capable of.

Aetheo: Brought to you by the author getting off his lazy bum and typing a few words. I guess.

I actually don't really know what to say right now. Kinda a loss.

Aetheo: You do that. Proofreading while sick is sucky anyways. Less is more. More is less. Reality is false. That sort of thing.

Yee.

I mean, I guess we could ask people what they're doing today. Cause neither of us are doing shit all.

Aetheo: Not quite true. I'm going to attempt to sleep with a stuffy nose and congested as fuck throat. So far I've gotten 4 hours in as many days.

Aetheo: ...I think we still need to unclaim things.

Indeed, the disclaiming.

Aetheo: Y'know, when the sick person is the one advocating putting effort into something, the world feels fucked up.

Aetheo: Nonetheless, it is the world we live in because when I attempt to expound further upon the author's ideas his response is "neato" followed by silence.

Wait, oh we're doing this. Right. I don't remember saying that but it sounds about right.

Aetheo: *coughing fit*

Well, I got nothing. But… we got a friend here who might have something to say.

Duck: Squawk.

This is the Roc. (BUM BA-DUM BA)

Aetheo: You sure?

The ancient bird of Egyptian mythology.

Aetheo: And part-time wrestler. (Are you sure about that)

Do you smell what the Roc is cookin'? Hint, it's rock food. Right, Roc?

Chicken: SQUAWK.

Aetheo: I wouldn't think you'd cook your full elephant. But you do you, Roc. Now, how 'bout you do what me'n the Author hired you for?

You see, this is our disclaimer Roc. (Aetheo: BUM BA-DUM BA)

Hawk: SQuawK

Aetheo: Well it's a bird of prey and rhymes.

So the Roc here, BUM BA- no alright. Roxy the Roc here is going to disclaim everything you need to know about dem' Spyro's.

Emu: …

What sounds do Emu's make?

Aetheo: Sounds like grunts mostly.

Oh… well shit, we need something else.

Parrot: Bitch.

Yes. Wonderful.

Roxy: These two prey-animals want me to say that they don't have the rights to make money off of the world or characters of the Spyro universe. Why they would pay someone to say that they can't make money is beyond me, but not beyond my ability to exploit for elephants.

Nice. Thank you, Roxy.

Chapter 14: A Severe Case of Monachopsis and In Absentia

For most non-ordinary people, waking up somewhere with little memory of how they arrived removes the very idea of a comfort zone. With such cliché questions as "Where am I?" or "How did I get here?" being their first and possibly only thoughts before they are handed either a devious plot or tragic backstory.

In Spyro's case, while he was no ordinary person- despite his best attempts- he found himself waking up exactly where he remembered with full recollection of how he got there. However, that did not preclude his current "gut feeling" from registering as uncomfortable.

Of course, that wasn't his fault. Volteer had a way of standing over people while they slept that just made them feel like that.

"Are you aware that you rest in the fetal position?"

Spyro, not bothering to look himself over, responded. "No?"

"Oh!" Volteer exclaimed, taking a large step backward. "Well! I see. Then may I discourage such activities? It is drastically more beneficial to sleep on your stomach or with your back straightened. Prevents cramps in the morning! Protects your posture! You'll awaken feeling much better than if you had slept otherwise! Trust me! I can postulate with utmost certainty that-"

By this time, Spyro's expression had glazed over and he had stopped listening. It was too early in the morning for him to be relieved to see the Guardian in good health. Several minutes later, after the rapid slew of speech had ended, he found himself blankly staring into Volteer's face, the Guardian staring back.

"Er…" Spyro sputtered, realizing he had been asked a question. "Yes?"

"Oh! Splendid!" Volteer shouted, ecstatically kneading the ground. "I'll wait outside for you to collect anything you might require before we depart for the mercantile district posthaste!" With that, the elderly drake bounded off into the hall.

Once the door creaked shut, Spyro allowed his expression to mimic his cluelessness. A quick sweep of the room revealed little to him, other than that Cynder wasn't currently present to explain anything. But once he dug into his memory from the day before, Spyro remembered something about Volteer wanting them for a task, though he had no idea what.

But, he was able to conclude that the Guardian's excitement what probably related to that "what" and he had just mindlessly agreed to it whatever the "what" was.

He sighed.

Upon forcing his way through the closet door, the drake found himself amidst the continued bustle from yesterday, sleepily allowing the flood of bodies to carry him toward the main entrance.

Shielding his eyes as he passed through, Spyro once again looked over the vastness of the infirmary in its ragged glory. Despite the undesirability of things to look at, Spyro's eyes were drawn to the infirmary's central roadway. There, obstructing traffic, stood Volteer and Lilith.

Stumbling forward, it wasn't long until he found himself sitting before them. They were arguing about something, and from what Spyro had caught when he entered earshot, it seemed to relate to whatever Cyril and Cynder were doing yesterday.

"Well, I don't care what Terrador thinks! I'm more than capable of curing this… thing! Whatever Cyril called it!" By whatever rights, this was a sensitive topic for Lilith- and she viciously defended her opinion.

"Y-yes! Of course! I don't doubt that, but… but the elixir Cyril formulated can treat a myriad of patients at once…" Volteer, not so much.

"Are you saying that I can't do that too?" Lilith demanded, disregarding Volteer's face space.

Volteer stuttered from his shrunken position. "N-no! No! It's just that… for the betterment of the people, we need to provide a more... Immediate! Cure..." The guardian's eyes darted rapidly when Lilith began to growl. This had the adverse effect of catching where Spyro was standing.

"You agree, Spyro. Right?" Volteer chuckled nervously. "...right?"

Spyro blinked. "Uh… yes?"

The attention Volteer had brought to Spyro also grabbed Lilith, but unfortunately for the Guardian, hearing a third opinion didn't seem to sap her pride one bit. With continued snarling, she backed off.

"Fine!" she shouted, turning away. "If neither of you thinks I can do it then I'll just have to prove you wrong!"

As she stormed off, Volteer called out. "Miss Lilith! I-I don't believe exclusively treating-" Before he could finish, she lashed out and whipped him in the nose with her fern-like tail blade.

"Oh, silly Volteer!" Lilith slithered up and pressed herself firmly against the Guardian's chest. Slowly, she snaked her head beneath his and whispered softly in his ear.

"That would be rude," she said, nuzzling his neck.

Volteer looked thoroughly terrified. "Of course…" he swallowed.

Abruptly, Lilith's body lurched violently and she was overtaken by the giggles. A few seconds later, Volteer fell victim and began to chuckle nervously, probably fearing for his life. The only person who wasn't laughing was Spyro, who was simply blank and confused.

But Spyro's confusion was put aside as not soon after Lilith removed herself from around Volteer. Taking a moment to grab him by the shoulders and shake him vigorously, she ran off laughing into the mess of tents, leaving them with a shout of "Got your bone!"

Spyro didn't have much to say. The eccentricity of the situation had gone far beyond him and in all honesty, he was still tired, so Lilith's… Lilithness didn't have much of an effect. But when he turned away from the now-fading laughter of the mad dragoness to Volteer, he found no such immunity.

"Master Volteer?" Spyro initiated. Hearing his name seemed to pop Volteer out of his stupor. Turning to Spyro, he spoke.

"Y-Yes?" he said.

Spyro pointed to his own snout. "You have something…"

"Oh!" Volteer exclaimed, going cross-eyed. Reaching up, he pulled the grassy needle that Lilith had left when she whipped him out. "T-Thank you, Spyro. I..."

Then, the Guardian paused and Spyro's confusion levels returned to a solid seven out of ten.

"Is there something wrong?" he asked.

Volteer reconciled a distraught expression. "No! Ah, n-nothing at all! Spyro."

"Okay? Um, you said we were going to the... mercantile district?" Spyro asked, pulling his attention away from where Volteer had begun crushing the needle.

"Yes! Of course!" the Guardian started, scraping his foot against the ground. "W-Why don't you go ahead? Find Cynder! Yes! How about you go ahead and find Cynder."

"Sure?" Spyro asked. "But why-"

"Don't worry about me! I'll catch up with you before we depart!" Volteer interrupted, smiling impatiently. "I just have some… things, to attend to before then!"

"O-kay? But-"

"Go on!" The elderly drake pressured, motioning Spyro off with a flick. "Just follow this span here! It will deliver you straight there!"

Spyro stood, incredulous, as he watched Volteer curl in on himself with an ever-increasing nervousness. Eventually, but with no lack of suspicion, he took a step back.

"Alright," Spyro said and turned away. With a small skip, he jumped into the air, flying off in the direction the Guardian had directed.

With the increased speed that flying brought, it wasn't long until Spyro had broken his way into the cityscape. Unfortunately, it also wasn't long until the distance between buildings became so narrow that, from the height he was at, roads began to vanish beneath the intricately arched and domed rooftops, hiding the path Volteer had instructed him to follow.

Forced to land, Spyro paused as his eyes adjusted to the city's morning shadow. Suddenly, he gasped and jumped to the side. With no apparent sense of safety, a wooden cart barreled past him.

"Hey! Watch where yer goin'" The "driver" yelled as his cart was carried into the distance.

It took Spyro a moment to right his senses and fully realize where he was. With a sudden rush of fear, he quickly stumbled to the nearest side of the street. Another cart flew past him.

The only real Warfayin chaos he had seen up to that point had been the reconstitution of the lower city, the "landslide" not counting in his book due to its artificially-induced nature. But when he took a brief moment to look back, it became apparent to him that the so-called "chaos of construction" was all controlled.

What stood before him now was true chaos, and it was simply people... selling things. Somehow, the claustrophobic avenue, hardly worthy of the title, had become a street vendors' paradise.

A third cart.

Shouting and calls for prices or attention bounced around the walls as competing shops yelled each other out of business. Clothing articles were waved about, the people selling them hoping to stand out above the crowd. Foot trolleys were being pushed along with the traffic, even while they had active customers. The only stores that seemed placid were the niche ones, such as one shop that, from the short glimpse Spyro had caught of it, sold dream-catchers made of woven rocks.

This was, of course, all in exclusion of the shops inside the buildings, but the literal wave of bodies prevented any such onlooker from seeing them.

Spyro had no clue what was going on. He had never seen so many people up close like this and so far, he was not enjoying it.

Swallowing, he took a step back.

"Woah!"

Cart.

Spyro jumped and spun around. He was faced with a spindly looking mole behind a small counter.

"Watch it with that tail there, buddy!" The energy behind the voice was obviously forced. "Or someone might think you're tryin' somethin' shady." The mole then kicked Spyro's tail out from behind the counter.

"Oh!" Spyro yelp, moving his tail beneath his body. "I-I'm sorry I didn't mean-"

"Aye! Don't sweat it! Say! You look like a fashion'ble guy!" The mole then, with an astonishing speed, swooped up and grabbed Spyro around the neck. "I mean, you don't see a lot of dragons these days, but I can tell your scale color's quite unique!"

"R-Really?" A single drop of sweat fell into Spyro's eye.

"Yeah! I mean look at you!" The mole let Spyro go and stood awkwardly before him, waving a hand across his body. "I mean if those colors don't scream royalty then I'm in the wrong profession."

"Uh…"

"Say! What if I cut his royal highness a deal?" The mole scurried up back behind his stall. Rifling around for a second, he prepared something just below the countertop. "You see, I got this item. Incred'bly rare! Comes all the way from Tall Plains! And you know how hard it is to get antiquities from there now'a days!"

"Y-Yes?"

"Ah! Ya'see! I knew ya'd be interested!" The mole looked absolutely ecstatic. "Now, I can only show ya it for a second. Don't want any… undesir'bles seein' it, ya'know! Yeah! Yeah! Alright, so…" The mole leaned in very close to Spyro's face.

"When I count to three, I'm gonna poke it out. Alright?" Spyro nodded dumbly. "Alright. One… two… three!

Just the mole said "three," he shot the item into view. It was a hat, bowl-shaped with a large brim and holes cut into it for horns. But the special part about it wasn't its tan coloring or maroon ribbons. It was the fact that it looked like a peacock had died on top of it.

"Ah! Ah! Yeah! Look at this beauty!"

Correction, a peacock had died on top of it, the stuffed bird literally making the hat twice as large as it ever had any right to be. Spyro's mouth hung agape in shock.

The mole laughed and put the bird with head affixments back under the table. "That look on your pretty face tells me ye've never seen anythin' like it. Right?"

Silence.

"Right. Well! My royal friend! Seein' as I like you so much, I'll make you a special deal. Yeah?" The mole jumped up to the seat behind the counter and looked down at the dragon. "Originally, I was gonna sell this work of art for five-'un'red pieces, but just for you, I'll cut it down to three-fity. Yeah! That sound good?"

Spyro blinked. "Uh… no?"

The mole froze. "No? But, that's a steal! Alright, alright… three-twenty-five."

Spyro took a step back. "Um, n-no I'm g-g-"

"Really? Okay! Okay… three-'un'red."

With a rush of wind, Spyro lept into the air.

"Come on, that's a great deal!" The mole shouted as the drake began to fly away. "Okay! Your loss! But, but! Hey! Tell your friends, yeah! Yeah? Yeah… he'll tell 'em."

Spyro was hyperventilating. His eyes were glazed over in fear and a film of sweat was pooling beneath his scales. Who was that mole? Was he even talking to them? He couldn't remember, there was simply too much going on around him.

This place was just too spontaneous. He couldn't just "turn off" like he did when he got into fights. Just letting reaction and instinct do all the work. This kind of spontaneous required his full attention.

He had never experienced anything like it and had no idea how to handle the marketplace's cacophony of the senses. There were too many sounds and colors and the whole place reeked some conglomerate of smells. Not even the airspace was clear; the buildings so tightly packed and there were banners everywhere and, and…

Spyro yelped as he flew face first into a hung up shirt. Quickly becoming entangled, he panicked and began to struggle. With a snap, the clothesline broke, and he plummeted to the ground, twisting as he fell.

Flaring his wings, Spyro landed roughly, with neither airfoil fully extended, trapped beneath the folds of cloth. Tearing the fabric away from his face; he gasped for air.

In his discombobulated state, all Spyro could see were blurs. The needle-precise headache that wracked him between the eyes made it hard to focus and as he grasped his forehead, his body trembled.

"Isn't… Isn't that a purple dragon?"

The heavy breathing at the forefront of Spyro's mind died. And likewise, his body froze.

"Hey, yeah! It is! I thought they were only a myth!"

With visible and awkward tentativeness, Spyro lowered his arm. He was immediately greeted with the gazes of what had to be twenty or thirty different people, all staring at him with mixes of surprise and excitement.

"Mom, look! It's a purple dragon!" His head turned.

"Deary, look. It's the one in the fairytales." Whipped to the side.

"Amazing!" Shot toward.

"Wow!" Darted.

"Can I get your autograph?"

There was a crash.

Spyro jumped, realizing belatedly that the sound had been produced behind him. Spinning around, he was met with the downed figure of a waiter and a platter whose contents had been launched off somewhere in his peripheral vision.

"O-Oh!" Spyro started, his tail again curling around himself. "I-I'm so sorry! I-I..."

"Mom, what's wrong with him?" His head turned.

"Oh, my. He doesn't look alright. Does he?" Whipped to the side.

"I think he's lost," Shot toward.

"My bloody clothes!" Darted.

"Are you alright, friend?"

Spyro's panic bubble popped staring deep into the eyes of another waiter. A Cheetah, this one was, and he looking at Spyro with a mix of annoyance, excitement, and concern.

"Are you lost?" The Cheetah asked.

"I-I-I-" The stutter in Spyro's voice was growing. "I don't-" The drake cringed, his headache rearing up again.

When the waiter saw Spyro block his pained face, he outstretched a hand.

"Just calm down, frie-"

Like a frightened animal, Spyro scampered away from the Cheetah, pausing only mentally as he apologized to the people whose chairs he was pushing around. The drake jumped into the air and ungainly flew away from the open-air restaurant.

There was no thought behind this flight, simply panic and desire to escape. Unfortunately, this meant that Spyro crashed, mere seconds later, landing on the porch of a storefront a surprising distance from the restaurant before.

Immediately, he brought both paws up to his head. The pain he was experiencing was unbearable. He had been slashed, stabbed and shot, but whatever was happening right now, this overzealous pinpoint of a headache, was nearing the top of his list. The pain continued to grow.

He just couldn't block out the noise, the ceaseless chatter of those around him. Emanating from hundreds of mouths and objects, ricocheting wildly off the walls, effectively duplicating itself until one voice sounded like a thousand. And under it all, the rising drone of the ring. Static and just as endless, abandoning reason as its volume rose above the discord yet not covering it in the slightest.

Then, with no external trigger, Spyro's breathing began to slow. He had remembered something. A memory from his home, and an incident so very similar to this one.

It was the day a famous merchant had come to town and all the neighboring villages had congregated within his own to hawk, browse, trade and buy. Hundreds of bodies; noise more than he could handle. Pure claustrophobia and sensory input. Shutdown.

Expect everyone then had been a hundredth of his size.

The situation put him in a panic similar to now. But rather than breaking down, he simply ran away.

When he was found by Sparx and his parents later that day, he explained what happened. He remembered his mother being concerned and comforting him, but that was all she could do. However later that night, his father brought him outside for a chat.

Spyro chuckled to himself, recalling how ashamed and scared he was when that happened; thinking he had done something wrong and got into trouble.

Instead, Flash went on to talk about how some people sometimes don't do so well in these kinds of situations. That their minds just worked differently. He told Spyro about his brother and how he also had that problem but eventually grew out of it.

"Actually," Flash said. "The last time I saw him, he told me that it still happened to him."

"S-So, I won't grow out of it?"

"Maybe not, kiddo… But," Flash put on a smile. "He did tell me his little trick for getting around it. Whenever it would happen, he said that he would take a deep breath, close his eyes and remember where he was and why he was there."

"I'm in Warfang... to help people," Spyro mumbled.

"Then, he would focus on one sound."

A slow creak filled Spyro's mind.

"And try to envision what it was and where it was going."

A small cart, being sluggishly pulled up the street by an elderly mole.

"Then he would open his eyes and look to see if he was right."

And Spyro was.

"Then, he'd be able to think clearly enough to know what he was going to do next."

He was going to help.

When Spyro actually did open his eyes, he found himself no longer on the side of the road, but instead in its center. Before him, a cart and an old mole.

It was the undertaker.

A dumb, self-defeating smile spread across Spyro's face as he felt himself die violently on the inside.

If the ancestors were ever laughing at him, now was the time.

"But… why?" he whispered and his smile dropped to a look of pure hopelessness.

"Eh?" the undertaker mumbled. He noticed Spyro standing next to him.

But why?

"Oh, it's you again. What do you want?" the gravelly voice of the old mole droning in Spyro's ears.

He finally understood what Sparx was talking about whenever he said: "internal screaming intensifies."

"What? Do you think I got more bodies for you to burn?" The mole laughed. "Well, I was actually mighty surprised by the work you did last night. Fine that was. Way better than that other one."

Spyro wasn't really able to appreciate the compliment.

"So as it turns out, I actually have… MORE BLOODY CORPSES!"

Appreciate... the compliment.

"You thought I was done with ya? Ha! Is that it? With the job you did last night, we might just finish it all within the next season or two!"

The… compliment.

"Yup! That's what happens when you let a massive world destroying golem into a city! See you tonight, you sick freak!"

Complement.

But somehow, even over the undertaker's thorny laugh, Spyro heard a strained grunt from the other side of the cart.

Piano...

A choir, unseen, rang out through the open air. The voices were quiet, at first, merely background ambiance. But, as the undertaker hucked and began to walk away, the choir recognized his importance in their grand reveal and grew louder.

Mezzo-piano.

A cello added it's slow, sturdy sound. The low reverberation providing a shape for the breathy "aww" of the choir. A simple bass note, growing to a chord as the volume crescendoed, but it made all the difference in the sudden musical dynamic.

Mezzo-forte.

A violin danced into the fray! The sounds it made mimicking the jittery, manic motions of its player. The excitement it induced! Synonymous to the sparks flying in Spyro's mind as he wondered what could possibly be behind the soon-to-pass cart.

Fortissimo!

The last note in a snare drum staccato; the cart had passed! The sky exploded and a holy light bathed the newly revealed area! The choir and following orchestra had reached a new peak of volume! All instruments fell into beat, reaching a fifth-chord that rattled the walls in its wholeness!

Unfortunately, this goosebump-inducing auditory bliss was unheard by Spyro.

The fourth wall is truly cruel and unforgiving.

Now that the Undertaker was gone, Spyro could finally see what was behind him. It was another cart. This barrow was smaller but more lavish and decorated than the undertakers- perhaps acting as both a means to carry and present its clearly more valuable wares. Such wares were not visible to Spyro, but it was clear they were heavier than typical goods.

That fact became increasingly apparent when he looked upon the strained face of the mole. This mole, whose name he would later learn to be Reginald, was in fact a jeweler. And aged artisan; similar to the undertaker, in a way.

He was toting all his pieces from his old, incredibly niche location in the lower city to a new store. One that he apparently was sharing with fellow merchants for reasons that were, according to him, "totally not because my precious shop got destroyed by a flood of water."

Whatever the reason he was there, Spyro was more than happy to help him, and the more he learned, the less he thought about the chaos that continued around him.

"Then the next day, I seem him right across the street from my shop!" Reginald had been recounting stories from his earlier days to Spyro, as the elderly often do. "Could you believe that? One day he's stealing right from under my nose and the next, he's waving to me from a window!"

Spyro could only snigger due to the cart's handle being pressed up against his throat. The concept of a handcart didn't really cater to quadrupeds.

But Reginald didn't seem to mind. "I swear, the gall of you young people. It's beyond me sometimes."

Again, Spyro could only grunt. In agreement or not, the mole would never know. But what he did know was were his new shop was. With the flick of a wrist, he motioned Spyro up over the crest of the street they'd met on 10 minutes earlier.

What stood before them was a large, arched gate in the middle of the road. It was connected to the building beside it by walls and ramparts, forcing those to wished to pass through, through it. Not that the gate seemed to never close, due to the sheer amount of people that used it daily.

Spyro craned his neck upwards as they began to pass under it. He noticed guards atop the ramparts, moving in stoic, almost mechanical patrols. That, however, didn't last long. An officer looked in his direction and noticed him immediately.

The uproar that started soon after surprised Spyro, his shocked flinch making it obvious to everyone watching, including Reginald.

"Surprised? Why?" The old mole questioned.

Spyro stopped and set the handle down so he could properly respond. "Well, I've been in the city for two days and so far, that's the only, um, praise? I've gotten."

After taking the time to stroke his mustache, Reginald laughed. "Ah, I believe I know why." He stopped in the shade of the arch and turned to Spyro. "I don't think the Guardians have ever actually announced you. The only reason I know who you are is due to my uncontrollable eavesdropping tendencies while I was taking measurements for one of the Guardians. Cyril, I believe. Mm, beautiful piece that was. Three words: Azurite. Crystal. Centerpiece."

"Okay... I mean, I guess that makes sense," Spyro said. They continued walking. "But, people would still notice me, right? I am pretty, obvious..."

"Vying for attention, are we?" Spyro became flustered. Reginald laughed. "Relax, my boy. But you do make a point." He stopped again and reapplied his "thinking" face. "However, if I were to give it a reason. I'd simply have to say it's due to age."

"Age?" Spyro asked.

"Hm, indeed. There hasn't been a major gathering of dragons in this city for at least… one hundred years."

"One… hundred?" Spyro said slowly, as if it was the first time he'd ever heard the number.

"Hm, indeed. Most of the younger folks around here haven't ever seen dragons. Save for the few in that temple of yours, and the Guardians. Even then, don't see them out much."

Spyro frowned and turned back to arch. He could still see the guards chatting amongst each other, still excited by his appearance. A few even waved to him as he looked back.

"I guess," he said.

"If you're still wondering, I bet those guards know you from the battle," Reginald said.

Spyro turned his nose. "Yeah, I thought one of them looked familiar."

"There! Mystery solved!" Reginald clapped his hands. "No use worrying anymore anyways, we're here!"

Spyro hadn't been paying attention to where they were walking since passing under the arched gate, so it came as a surprise when they stopped abruptly.

When he focused, he was met by a quaint storefront. It appeared to simply be a cafe with most of its seating on the porch, the lack of interior space not allowing sheltered tables, more or less an entire extra business.

"Are you sure this is it?" Spyro asked.

"Of course! See, that's my cousin right there." He was pointing to the mole behind the counter. Before Spyro could react, Reginald turned to him and continued.

"Thank you, my friend. You helped this old mole when you had no obligation to do so."

"O-Oh! It was no problem, really. I was, um, headed this way anyway," Spyro replied.

"Hm, indeed. Well, regardless, philanthropy is in your nature, and I am not one to be outdone." With that, the mole walked to the back of his cart and undid a latch. Opening up the cart, he reached in an grabbed something.

"Here, my gift to you." As he said this, Reginald walked back and revealed a small, gilded box to Spyro.

"Just one of my more… unique pieces." The mole removed the handle from between the drakes neck and wing joints and replaced it with the box. "And don't you be going and saying no, now. I want you to have this."

Spyro kept his eyes on the box for quite some time before asking, "What's inside?"

"Ah, my friend," Reginald said and placed his hands on Spyro's shoulders. "Do you need to know?" Spyro remained silent and let the mole continue. "Well, I think this where we part ways. Thank you, again, Spyro, for your help. I won't soon forget it."

This was the first time Spyro noticed; his eyes were different colors.

Reginald smiled one last time then winked and turned away, taking the cart in hand and shambling over to an alley next to the store. Once he was out of sight, Spyro managed to break free of his thousand-yard stare.

The first thing he noticed was the building Reginald's new shop was situated in. It was not a normal building in the sense of its structure. It was round and layered. Of course, round buildings were a feature of Warfang's, but this particular one seemed different.

The shops that it contained were so disparate in appearance and sculpture that it almost looked like a giant architectural totem pole. Perhaps that was what made it so peculiar to him. Or maybe it was because the building stood completely alone.

When Spyro realized this, he blinked in surprise. He turned around, wondering if it was truly the only building around.

What he saw instead why far beyond what he had imagined.

This grand plaza, dedicated name: the mercantile district, was possibly the largest open space Spyro would ever see within the city.

It was a valley, stretching farther than any he had visited in while Avalar. The roads, riverways; patches of stalls grouped like patches of trees; the buildings mimicking the stone hoodoos that shot up from the earth in scattered places. The people... like grass, crowded and bustling.

And in the middle, a great limestone mountain. It was the only square structure in the whole area, and even then, it had its quirks. Its base could best be described using a five on a die. One, thick, central structure surrounded by four smaller pillars at its edges. These four pillars created diagonal arches that leaned toward the central building and connected. On top of it all was large "box" with a flat roof and bastions.

But even with the view of a lifetime in front of him, Spyro could only think of one thing.

How the heck was he going to find Cynder in all of this?

Spyro stepped forward, his feet lying lightly on the intricately placed stonework. He did not want a repeat of his previous incident. That was quite possibly the worst thing that could happen right now.

But if he did manage to hold it together, his next step was playing the biggest game of Where's Waldo with someone who specializes in popping in and out at the convenience of herself, and inconvenience of literally everyone else.

Spyro sighed and slogged forward through the crowd, the box still safely tucked between his wings.

It wasn't long before he found his way into in the inner half of the plaza, having made it with relative security and serenity. He stepped over a small bridge and discovered an interestingly shop-free ring surrounding the central building.

The ring was small in comparison to everything else, maybe only thirty feet across and shadowed on either side by pools of water. It contained its own ring, this one made of metal and was marked with tallies and pictures a set distance around. Currently, Spyro was standing in the shadow of the building atop the picture labeled "twelve."

"Hey, whatcha doing?"

The one instance in history in which Waldo comes to you. Perhaps this had been a trainer page.

Unfortunately, Spyro's over-reactive shock flung both him and his box several feet away. To double the misfortune, said box slid its way over to the edge of the ring and fell into the water.

Before Spyro could recover and retrieve the mystery gift, Cynder shouted, "I got it," and dove into the pool.

Spyro leaned forward and peered into the water. Simply, he could see Cynder at the bottom of the pool being protected from the water by two walls of wind.

The choir started up again.

"Could you not? Please?" Spyro said dryly.

"Not what?" Cynder asked from her Jesus pool. "Not pick this up or not use my abilities?"

Spyro looked dead.

"Sheesh, fine. Humourless much?" Cynder continued. Picking the box up, she jumped out of the pool.

"How'd you find me?" Spyro asked once she landed.

"Well, Volteer passed by here not to long ago and asked me... where you were," she said, taking the box in her mouth and placing it into a bag at her side. "When I didn't know, he asked me to find you." She pulled on the pack's straps to account for the new weight. "And let's be honest, here. You are the sorest of thumbs."

"Where did you get that?" Spyro asked, motioning to the bag.

"Volteer gave me some coins before he left. Thought I might as well get something useful," she replied.

"I guess."

"Where'd you get this box? It looks nice," Cynder asked.

"It was given to me by a mole named Reginald," he said.

"Reginald, hm? Sophisticated. What's inside?"

"I think it's jewelry," Spyro said, "but I don't know what kind."

"I didn't know you wore jewelry," Cynder teased.

"Hey! I-I didn't ask for this. Anyways, you're the one who wears jewelry," he retorted.

Cynder's eye twitched. "Yeah… I guess so… So does that mean it's mine?"

"Wha- no! I mean… maybe?"

"Aw, truly a shame." Cynder started to scratch her chin. "So… Should we go? Now?"

"Um, sure."

"Alright. This way." Cynder waved in forward, towards the largest building. "Volteer's just inside."

Words aside, the two passed their way through the last three rings and into the large structure's courtyard. It was a luscious garden, seemingly untouched by the war. Flowering bushes and chest-high hedges encircled each other, drawing out some grand picture that could only be seen from above.

As the two walked past marble fountains and pruned trees, Spyro noticed others walking among them. These people were usually in groups of two or three, all of them finely dressed and spaced quite a distance away from one another. Almost as if their words were not fit for gossip.

Upon walking under the first of the building's arches, Spyro could see that it was equally as decorated as the temple, but rather than the carved glyphs depicting ritual and enlightenment, they displayed commerce and marketing between a myriad of races.

"Cynder, what is this place?" Spyro asked, temporarily blinded by the difference of light in the room.

"I don't actually know the name," he followed her voice to the right, "but I'm pretty sure it's a trading hub."

"Trading hub?" he repeated.

"That or a bank, so pick your poison," she continued.

Spyro was silent for a moment. "But you're poison."

He was taking in the room around him, his eyes having adjusted to the dimmer light. The massive, quad-elemental, metal statue in the middle was doing its job and grabbing his attention. Granted, there wasn't much else in the way of sights. Four cylindrical pillars, four plain walls, and every desk in the goddamn city.

Cynder laughed. "Oh, so what. You're picking me?" She turned to she Spyro looking off into the sea of desks. "Ah, you're not actually paying attention."

Spyro whipped back from where he was watching a mole slip their shit. "N-No, I am!"

"Am what?" Cynder asked.

Spyro looked confused for a second before mumbling "Uh, never mind." Cynder scored herself two points.

After circling around the entire room, the two stopped at a large, closed door.

"I'll go get Volteer," Cynder said, promptly diving into her own shadow and gliding under the door.

Spyro "hm'd" and bit his lip. It was no less awkward for him, compared to any other random schmuck, to stand stagnant in front of a door for five minutes, despite supposedly being the savior of the world.

Lucky, after those five minutes, the door opened and out stepped Volteer.

"Ah, Spyro! Are you read- oh he's not present." Spyro walked around the door. "There you are! I see you've arrived!"

"Sorry about the delay," Spyro grumbled, rubbing the side of his face.

"Oh, it's inconsequential, my boy! In fact, if it weren't for Cynder here I'd still be jabbering on, and I know you're patient but-"

"Volteer!" Cynder interrupted. "How about we get going, yeah? You still haven't actually told us where we're headed."

"Oh! Right, yes, my apologies. I didn't mean to leave you to the whims of conjecture. Ahem. We are traveling…" Volteer went quite. Well, as quiet as one can be while they're fanboying. "To the Dragonfly Swamp Temple!"

The moles meandering around them jumped in surprise at the Guardian's outburst.

Spyro thought for a moment. "Wasn't it destroyed?

"Yeah, Malefor ripped it out of the ground. It should, actually, still be the middle of the… well, Not So Burned Lands," Cynder added.

Volteer giggled. "That is true, but he wasn't able to remove the entirety of its construction."

Cynder raised an eyebrow. "And by that you mean...?"

Volteer… giggled. "He didn't take my stash!"

Spyro and Cynder gave each other a look.

"Stash of what?" Spyro asked.

"And how do you know he didn't take your… stash?" Cynder finished.

"Ah! Don't fret young dragons! I am confident that my stash is still safe and sound where I marooned it!" Volteer began excitedly kneading the ground again.

"Right..." Cynder said.

"Well, fruitless pontificating about here!" Volteer shouted. "Let us travel!"

With that, he jumped forward, practically ran around the room and out the door.

There was a well deserved moment of silence once the Guardian was out of sight.

"So… are we going with him?" Cynder asked.

"Don't be like that," Spyro chided. "It won't be that bad. At least we'll get to spend time with him."

"That's fair," she said. Once they reach the courtyard, she added. "Maybe we'll see Sparx."

Spyro was taken aback. He had actually forgotten about his brother up until that point. "I thought he was here."

"I thought so too. I went to look for him last night," Cynder smiled to herself. "Was gonna tell him you died. But as it turns out, no."

"Huh," Spyro mumbled, finding absolutely nothing wrong with what she had just said.

"Maybe he went back to your home."

"Maybe."

A/N:

Well, this was supposed to be a Drake and Josh season 5 Christmas Special but seeing as we finished the editing thirty minutes late...

Aetheo: However- we are not GMT-11 so it is still Christmas somewhere. It's like the 5'o'clock somewhere thing but for procrastinators.

Someone else can check the technicalities for that.

Aetheo: Well, I just did. We can definitively get this out before it is no longer Christmas in Hawaii, so we are most definitely fine.

Neat. Nice fact-checking. Kinda like I checked how many seasons of Drake and Josh there were before writing that.

Aetheo: This is the sort of pointless fact-checking authors and their altogether too-loyal proofreader/editor/fact checker/friend/stupid idiot word writers do. I hope you're happy, readers.

Yeah, this is suddenly on you.

Parrot: Fag.

Hey, that's insensitive.

Aetheo: Get that damned bird out of here.

Parrot: Fuck you.

I'm starting to question if it's actually a parrot.

Parrot: I did 9/11.

Aetheo: Real-talk: How is a parrot typing? That's where we went wrong.

Authors Fodder:

Tautology: Tautological

Migraines Suck. Typically. Except when you load up on drugs and can use it as an excuse to get out of something. Then they're just a painful inconvenience with benefits. (Sounds like my last boyfriend)

Ring in and ring... Ringception.

Only when I'm feelin' the Reg.

Fudk yuu smellcheck

Aetheo: So I gang sign people, you shoot yourself?

Spyro: Aboslutly

Retrieve the mysterious dick

Aetheo: Was… this your word?

Aetheo: That's not a word…

Chapter finished on December 26, 2017. (At 12:34am GMT-8 so technically still a Christmas special.)