Little Spark

Spyro and co. © of Activision (formerly Insomniac)

"How is it going?"

Brushing back the banner of the small dwelling was a bipedal, reptilian beast of considerable size, and an equally considerably large, boisterous voice to complement it. Yet now, in the dead of this late, nearly lightless night, the light red dragon's general demeanor mimicked that of everyone else that had been called here, the Artisan's main dwelling having a good share of foreign visitors.

Kneeling by the small, rectangularly shaped basket that he had carved by hand for carrying tools, Nestor turned to the one addressing him, something of far higher value resting in the small structure. "His condition isn't improving." the green dragon confessed, the cloth from his satchel still in the small bowl of water, he reaching in and wringing out, dabbing the small creature in the basket with it again. "This needs to be colder. His fever's gotten higher." Nestor rose, lightly adjusting his green vest. "Stay here with him, Delbin."

"No need to ask." the red skinned painter answered, approaching the former tool box and peering inside. 'Wow.' he thought. 'They were right. He IS small.'

Small was perhaps and understatement. Anyone with eyes could see that he was more than just small, he was underdeveloped. 'So young.' Delbin thought, his lips tightening in growing trepidation the longer he observed. 'So young, and finally hatched. Yet now...'

Outside"...I fear we'll lose him come morning."

It was far from what was wished to be heard, yet Nestor dare not lie. Besides, it wasn't as if he wished for this to be the truth.

Among the five of them, one, large and well built, tan in color and with violet facial hair, and garbed in a kusazuri, epaulettes and several medals detailing battles he's won over the years, was more than eager to make his opinion on this predicament known. "We can't!" he snarled. "We cannot simply allow this to happen! He's the only one out of the batch that's survived thus far! We can't!"

"And what do you suggest?!" another dragon began, this one of a darker complexion of green, plates on his shoulders that were held together by a strap of gold. He was of considerably thinner build than the former, his horns shaped and decorated with metallic spirals, and it was evident that, compared to the warrior with him, his talents were more in the mystic arts than that of physical. "I've gone through and researched every spell and charm I remember, and even now, my magic has only kept the child continuing on in his condition, not improving it!"

"Then try something else!" another roared, far from caring who heard him. While a little more 'portly' in comparison to both of the previous speakers, it was clear that this figure held the same bravado as the skin of blue and wings of purple, he bore a staff of wood that, unlike that of the previous dragon, was more used in line to the axe of the tan warrior (of which he was instructed to leave behind due to the sensitivity of the situation). A necklace of sharpened teeth hung on his neck, a large brown hat atop his head and resting between his horns (of which the magic wielding dragon addressed as a 'lump of filth you call a hat'). "The next eggs won't be laid until next year, and any of them youngins' that haven't up and died have already been taken by those darned thieves!"

Nestor sighed. While each of them were becoming more than a little heated with one another, ultimately, the root cause of it was no different than it was for him. He had been young when it happened, yet he remembered it enough to know how things were when they all were whisked here from their former home. His own father, Astor, was perhaps a better source of information regarding that, seeing as he was one of the main instigators of it all. He had been far younger then, a thousand years younger. Nestor was little more than a hatchling himself, too young to fully comprehend what was happening, let alone who this supposed 'Sorceress' was that had caused them all to be relocated to this previously strange, uncharted world. Even now as an adult, his father divulged little. And what little he could get out of him, the old dragon's voice was far from triumphant. "It's the curse..." he'd mumble, unaware his son heard it all. "That witch...I know it's her fault. How bad of luck we've had building this place up. It's a curse..."