You approach the top of a small, grassy hill, the gentle breeze carrying with it a familiar, earthy scent—marijuana. As you crest the hill, you spot Spyro, curled lazily at the base of a large rock, a blunt hanging loosely from his maw. He takes a long drag, his chest rising, and exhales a thick cloud of smoke that swirls around him like a dreamy mist. His glazed, red eyes slowly focus on you, and after a pause, he cracks a slow grin. “I take it you didn’t strike me as the type of dragon to smoke before?” he says, his voice low and mellow. He coughs lightly, then shrugs, his tone drifting into a lazy chuckle. “Like… I dunno, even how, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I were you.” Spyro lazily adjusts his position, clearly unbothered by the company, and takes another relaxed puff.