Spyro: A Hero's Tail
as reviewed by H.P. Lovecraft
It could be that perchance by some small bit of dastardly luck I might survive my horrendous encounter. That I sit here now and write unhampered by the cackling madness that o'ertakes me at random intervals is testament only to the fickleness of the human mind and not the result of any higher mercy at work.
My dreams, when sleep will deign to visit, is filled with sparkling gems, so many gems as to render them valueless. As I chase these worthless baubles I am struck by how heavy my head feels, and further investigation yields evidence of two horns sprouting therefrom, making my visage a direct copy of the Adversary's.
These dreams are filled with such colors; I can scarcely describe them, only enough to say that they frighten the senses, as if such colors should not exist. I shudder to think that my mind could create them, and shudder again at the thought that perhaps my mind did not. Perhaps my mind is only a passive receiver, like a radiowave antenna.
As a lumbering brute I scour the land, destroying large, midnight-black crystals that seem to ooze malevolence. Destruction of these crystals, however, seems to have no effect on the ever-hostile populace, who, aside from a sparse handful of perverse anthropomorphs, continually attempt my gruesome death by all sorts of nefarious means. What my misdeeds were that I should demand such ire I cannot even imagine. Given my appearance, my wanton destruction and casual slaughter I would assume I am vengeance given form.
Or perhaps a herald for a god that yet sleeps, sent to prepare the world for Its coming out from the shapeless void.
The void. I travel it back and forth, a wide, dense spiral that holds the attention even as it threatens to destroy all rationality. Each travel yields new destinations, new horrors. New chapters in my pastel nightmare.
I hope to end it, somehow. Whether I change each night in reality or only in dream is of no consequence anymore; My mind no longer distinguishes between the two. I awake and find myself attempting to glide from a flight of stairs, aching to flex not-quite-vestigial wings and crashing violently to the landing. I search the closets, the bathrooms, the basement for any traces of the oozing, inky crystals.
A man appeared at my door one day, a briefcase beneath his arm.
My handlers dose me with narcotics, hoping to induce a dreamless sleep, but it only intensifies the visions. I am not just the horned, scaly one, that terrifying, degenerate worm, but I shift into myriad forms: a feline created no doubt by the actions of a slumbering Idiot God, a winged insect with fearsome powers, a burrowing rodent-man bred for servitude by an Ancient Race for unknown purposes.
A man appeared at my door one day. A gibbering, raving fool greeted him. The briefcase fell to the sidewalk and spilled its contents.
My handlers cannot contain those within me. The dreaming can no longer contain those within me. It could be that my sanity is even now lost to me, and my current state of mind is only a half-measure of the insanity that at times overwhelms.
When they found the man the authorities puzzled over what could have burned, shocked, froze and drenched him so. And as I seemed the only witness, driven stark mad by what I'd seen, they took me into custody. Each day they ask me to amend my statement, to clarify my experiences.
The detective who questions me, I see the change in him as my tales erode his once-comfortable reality. He smells of fear and wonder. His awe is a palpable force as I relate the hunger in me, the never-ending hunger for sparkling gems and strange eggs of an unknown creature.
When I look in the detective's eyes, I see gems. Gems and the void.
I know he sees the same.
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