Sexton Barrow: Banquet of Remembrance: A Spoonful of Legend

I tap the spoon against a fallen stone until it rings, and announce that I am beginning Ashfang's funeral service.

The spoon's plink against stone summons a lonely chime that echoes through the ruined hall. Ashfang's scaly snout quirks in a slow, suspicious grin. “A funeral service? How quaint. Heard a gravedigger makes the best undertaker. But I’m hungry for a blaze, not dirges.” His eyes twinkle like coals — amused, but not fooled. He coils, blocking your path, smoke curling from nostrils that might roast a spoon if you’re careless. You’ve caught his curiosity; laughter in his throat, and the village still breathes. What next?

I ask him what he would like said about him, since after tonight nobody left alive will remember it kindly.

Ashfang’s tail flicks like a conductor’s baton. “What I'd like said? That I came, I saw, I turned your village to ash—and I looked fabulous doing it.” His scales shimmer with pride, not fear. "But you, gravedigger, are amusing. Talking doesn’t stop the fire, yet here you are, proposing eulogies to the living. Now, spill—why spoon funeral rites, and what’s your pitch to keep the toast alive beyond dusk?” The rain taps a somber beat; embers flirt dangerously with dry wood outside. The clock ticks, and your one spoon gleams humble in the dragon’s smoky gloom.

I ring the spoon again and deliver the version the village would give: brief, unkind, and mostly about property damage.

You tap the spoon sharply, each clink a mock obituary for a village the dragon already covets as kindling. "Ashfang, the village burned, our barns flattened, and honest roofs turned to mush." The dragon chuckles, a sound like hot metal warping. "Delightfully spiteful," he says, "but you miss the point: ash is art, and I’m its avant-garde maestro. Your spoon rattles mournful tunes, but can it bite back flames?" Ashfang’s glare burns a little fiercer; the thatch’s first scream of fire wavers beyond the ruins. Time’s thinning, killer. Which note next?

I ask which of the two eulogies he would rather have read, and who exactly he imagines would attend.

Ashfang arches a mighty brow, amused despite the creeping glow beyond the shattered windows. "Of the two? The snide village version has brutal honesty—I savor its spite. Yet the fanciful, fancy-pants funeral? Much duller, less... entertaining. As for attendees," he hisses softly, "I envision an eclectic crowd: charred whispers of forgotten wyrms, the smoke-wraiths of ash piles past, and me—everywhere and nowhere." He flicks smoke, a lazy plume curling like a sarcastic question mark. "But no dead applause. That’s my scene. So, gravedigger, which audience will your spoon truly play to, and to what end, hmm?" The village trembles as the first roof collapses, sparks cascading like a pyrotechnic insult.

I ring the spoon a third time and leave a long silence, so he can hear how empty the hall is.

The spoon’s clear ring bounces off cracked stones and dripping rafters, reverberating into the cavernous emptiness. Ashfang’s nostrils flare, savoring the silence like a wily connoisseur inhaling a burnt cinder. "Empty halls are my favorite auditoriums," he muses, voice smooth as molten brimstone. "Echoes carry lies and truths alike, but flames? They drown both." His tail taps impatiently — or is it a heartbeat? The village’s first chimney roars, a terrible solo on the brink. Your spiritual concert may entertain, but grander moves await. What next, maestro of the mundane spoon?

I offer him a different service: the village keeps his name, tells it well, and rings this hour every year.

You brandish the spoon like a scepter of remembrance. "A pact: the village keeps Ashfang's legend alive with an annual toll of this hour." The dragon pauses, scales glinting with the flicker of approaching flames. "A monument in memory, not ash," he says slowly, smoke curling from his nostrils like contemplative smoke signals. "Intriguing... but a spoon’s clang isn’t honor enough to spare a village. Still, naming rights and rituals? Now you're sounding like a bard with business acumen." Outside, the blaze devours wood with hungry glee. Ashfang awaits your encore, amused but unconvinced. Your spoon buzzes with potential, or madness—hard to tell.

I set the spoon on the stone as the first offering and ask him to accept the living version instead of the ash.

You place the spoon reverently on the cold stone, a humble yet potent token. "Accept this living offering—the village’s pledge to celebrate your name, not your flames." Ashfang’s smoky eyes narrow, smoke twisting as he considers this peculiar tribute. Then, with a rumble that shakes loose a few angry embers, he coils back, a rare concession etched in his scales. "A banquet of remembrance over ruin? Well played, gravedigger. I accept." The fires ebb, the village's fate rewritten by a spoon and a pact—dusk dies unburned beneath an unlikely alliance.