Auguste Pell: How a Sommelier Saved a Village with Rain and Nerve

I hold my spoon out into the rain, catch a bowlful, swirl it, and ask Ashfang when he last tasted anything at all.

The spoon, a humble chalice of rust-tempted steel, fills with the rain's reluctant generosity. Ashfang's snout lowers, nostrils flaring a smoky contempt. “I tasted the screams of that banquet’s last feast—charred memories and bitter ash. It was centuries ago, but still... the flavor clings.” His voice drips theatrical disdain, as if suffering the burden of melancholic gourmet boredom. Your damp challenge rumbles a flicker of interest in his ancient, cranky palate. Rain sluices down the ruined banquet hall’s walls, the village’s doom ticking toward dusk.

I offer him the spoonful of rainwater and ask him to describe it. I insist on specifics: minerals, weather, stone.

Ashfang peers at the dripping spoon like a dragon examining a particularly uninspired gumdrop. "Cloud-flavored. A muddle of wet stone, more gray sorrow than taste. You expect a dragon to savor rain? My palate demands the spice of ruin, not puddles." He flicks a soot-streaked claw, sending a lazy spark into the murk. "Yet your stubborn ritual entertains. What next, a toast with this humble chalice of tepid sadness?" His voice is a smoky quip, tinged with grudging amusement as the village's fate simmers closer to char.

I ask him to breathe out, then taste a second spoonful, and tell me honestly whether it tastes the same.

Ashfang whimsically exhales, a curling plume of fragrant smoke and embers washing over your spoon. You lift the steel chalice to your lips, then beckon him to judge. He snorts, "Different, yes—now thicker with the scorch of ancient tales and the bitter tang of smoke’s last breath." His eyes narrow, amused yet calculative. "Your little gust stirs more than rain’s dull dribble. Perhaps this spoon could hold more than sadness after all." Ashfang’s teeth gleam in the gloom; interest flickers, but dusk’s shadow looms. The village’s fate simmers perilously.

I explain what smoke does to a palate over centuries, and ask what else he can no longer taste.

Ashfang's eyes glitter like embers in a filthy grate. "Smoke scars the tongue as much as the flesh, dulls the senses to nuance," he rumbles, nostrils twitching. "I can no longer savor the bite of fresh herbs, nor the crisp snap of winter’s chill air. Only ash and ruin linger—a banquet of bitterness and barely masked grief." His voice lowers to a growl. "Why dredge up a dragon’s ruined tastebuds with your spoonful of diluted sorrow?" A dry ember flickers near the thatch's edge—the countdown to barbecue begins in earnest.

I catch water from three different parts of the ruin and have him rank them, proving his palate still works.

You collect three driblets from the ruin's corners: stagnant puddle, fresh drip, and bitter smoke-tinged seep. Ashfang sniffs each drop, curling a lip at the stagnant, raising an approving eyebrow at the crisp drip, then frowning at the smoky. "Impressive," he admits with a smirk, "your rusty spoon slices through my centuries of palate rot like a sharp knife through overcooked stew." A flicker of genuine intrigue ignites, but the horizon darkens with smoke from the village’s thatch. Your trade is stirring the dragon's tastebuds—and the tension. What next?

I tell him a burned village tastes of nothing for forty years, and offer him the well water of an unburned one.

Ashfang narrows eyes, smoke swirling like a brooding chef over ludicrously overcooked stew. “A village amnesiac for forty years? A delicate palate trapped in a smoky mausoleum? Now you tempt me with untouched water?” You extend your spoon, shimmering faintly with the promise of unburned life. The dragon snorts a laugh, puffs ember sparks—"Tempting, but does your humble spoon truly hold the elixir of renewal, or just glorified bathwater?" His interest sharpens; a flicker of bargaining fire, but dusk tightens its grip like an overzealous sommelier refusing last calls.

I hand him the spoon as a tasting vessel and ask him to spare the village long enough to drink from it properly.

Ashfang's smoky nostrils flare as he accepts the spoon, the modest steel chalice suddenly a vessel of unprecedented hope. He sniffs, then sips—slow, deliberate, reverent. "A taste of forgotten cleansings," he mutters, eyes misting with a dragonly nostalgia. The village’s first true hope in centuries drips from your spoon, binding Ashfang in a silent accord: burn postponed, promises brewed in the dust of a shattered feast. He coils back, a reluctant guardian of rain and ruin alike. Dusk paled beside the quiet miracle of a dragon savoring water, not fire.