Bram Kettleby: A Spoonful of Village Keeps the Dragon at Bay

I ask Ashfang whether he has ever eaten a village properly, as a stock, rather than burning it into carbon.

Ashfang's eyes narrow, amused by your question. “A village as a stock? Delightful. I’ve simmered societies, yes, but never brewed one into a broth. A curious thought! You seek to distract the dragon with culinary quirks. He rumbles, 'What flavor would your village add? Sweet? Bitter? Sour as the tears of your drippy spoon?' Rain patters, embers flicker, and Ashfang’s attention twitches like a tongue tasting spices. You have his interest, but glory is no mere snack.

I explain that fire destroys the flavour, and ask if he would like to learn what a village actually tastes like.

Ashfang cocks his head, scales shimmering wetly. “A snob of taste, are you? Enlighten me, little spoon. If fire ruins flavor, how do you propose to sample a village? Impatience scalds the air like your thumb’s souvenir. Rain taunts the embers, and the ruin's shadows twist like burnt herbs in a cauldron. The dragon’s curiosity simmers; you might yet stir the pot, or find yourself the burnt garnish.”

I gather rain in the spoon with grit and moss from the hall floor, and let him taste the ruin itself.

You offer Ashfang the spoonful of rain mingled with gritty moss—the essence of decay and neglect long steeped in these banquet ruins. He sniffs, nostrils flaring like twin forges, then licks the mixture with gleaming fangs. “An earthy tincture, sharp with despair and stubborn roots,” he muses, tongue flicking thoughtfully. "Not my usual fare, but intriguing—reminds me of forgotten dinners." His fiery breath hesitates, less a threat, more a warm sigh. The drizzle softens, embers smolder but do not bite yet. You can almost taste a truce brewing, spoon and all. What’s your next move?

I tell him that is what a burned place tastes like, and ask if he wants the village to taste the same forever.

Ashfang’s eyes, usually molten and sharp, dim with a flicker of something close to regret. “To imprison flavor in ash and ruin? A feast frozen in sorrow. You speak of forever—a preservation or a curse? The village could never rise, never ferment anew. Do you bargain with death’s dull eternal?” Your spoon, if a philosopher, would nod sagely, but alas, it only holds liquid and hope. The dragon waits, scales cooling to a smoky dusk—your argument puzzles its hunger.

I describe the alternative: the village kept whole, simmered slowly for years, fed to him by the spoonful.

Ah, a slow cook! You pitch a culinary memoir: the village preserved simmering gently in time, flavors unfolding sip by sip, an epicure’s indulgence rather than a fiery apocalypse. Ashfang blinks, baffled by your audacity — "A dragon who savors patience? Preposterous! Yet... a feast without ruin hath a curious appeal." The rain hushes; the embers gossip but dare not leap. He eyes your spoon as if contemplating its heroic absurdity. Your slow simmer sales pitch may just have fanned the embers of a deal.

I ask him to commit: no fire tonight, and the first spoonful delivered to this hall before the next new moon.

Ashfang coils tighter, smoke curling like a naughty mustache. “A pact, then—a meal by spoonfuls, not infernos. You ask for no fire tonight? A truce seasoned with promise. Strange, this tiny silver ladle wields the power of life and delay. I shall hold my flames, if your village delivers this morsel before the new moon’s rise. Fail, and the banquet burns, with you as the main course.” His grin flickers like a dying spark, yet your spoon feels heavier—mightier—than ever. Dawn bids you hurry: seven moves to serve or surrender.

I hold up the spoon as the measure of the bargain and tell him one village, uncooked, is worth a thousand ashes.

You brandish your humble steel spoon like Excalibur’s tinier, wetter cousin. "One village, uncooked, is worth a thousand ashes," you declare, spoon gleaming dully under the dripping ruin roof. Ashfang swivels, puzzled, then laughs—a volcanic chuckle that shakes loose a few embers, now quelled. "A pact kept by silver and word," he agrees, coiling away with a smoky puff. The village stands, untouched and tantalizingly uncooked, saved not by firepower, but by a spoonful of audacity and a dragon’s taste for patience. Bravo, spoon-wielder, you’ve simmered down catastrophe.