Pip Fenwright: The Dragon-Slaying Spoon of Due Process

I ask Ashfang to recite his oath exactly. I need to know whether he swore to burn the village, or to burn it himself.

Ashfang's snout curls, amused. “An oath? Spoken thus: 'I swear to burn the village with my own claws.' Though I confess, my voice is not quite recital-grade.” The dragon's proud scales shimmer with a hint of theatrical flair. His words suggest a commitment to personal involvement, not just incidental destruction. Sparks flicker from his nostrils, mirroring his impatience. Clearly, he's fond of his own riddles and his oath's grim specificity. It’s a verb, not a threat by proxy—no hired arsonists here, just one fiery zealot. Next move, Mr. Procedural.

He concedes the wording. I volunteer. I will burn the village on his behalf tonight, as his lawfully appointed agent.

Ashfang blinks, the amused gleam flickering as if surprised by your crooked logic. "An agent? How quaint. Does your paper authorize torch-bearing, or do I need to witness your signature?" His fiery breath dims to a wary smolder as the rain intensifies, each drop hissing on his scales like tepid reproach. He seems uncertain whether to laugh at your audacity or to roast you like marshmallow mischief. Your spoon gleams faintly—a ridiculous scepter for this fiery court. The clock ticks, and the village waits for a less ironic fate.

I ask him to appoint me aloud so the whole ruin hears it, and I raise the spoon as my instrument of office.

Ashfang cocks his huge head, amused by your solemn spoon-scepter ritual. "Very well, agent Pip Fenwright, by the power vested in the absurd, and under the flickering chandeliers of this banquet hall, I appoint you my official village burner." His voice rumbles, vibrating the cracked stone. The dragon’s scales shimmer, reflecting the faint steel glint of your spoon, now oddly regal. For once, his roar is less menace, more bureaucratic flourish. You've a spoken decree and a visible token—leverage that could char or charm. Dusk nears, the village holds its breath, and you clutch that gleaming spoon like the last line of defense.

I walk to the nearest fallen beam and begin, with enormous seriousness, attempting to set it alight using the spoon.

Ah, the grand flame-starting ceremony featuring a stainless steel spoon as your wick and tinder. You press the cold, utterly noncombustible utensil against the soggy wood, and for a breathless moment, hope flickers brighter than any ember could. Ashfang watches with a snort, amusement and disbelief curling his nostrils like a perfectly toasted bagel. "Really, Agent? Your chosen instrument for ignition? I expected a lighter, a match, or a catastrophe at least. Instead, you wield the culinary equivalent of a salad fork in a dragonfire duel." The rain drums louder, ghosting faint smoke that snuffs itself instantly. The village remains mercifully unroasted, but your solemnity verges on the tragicomic.

I keep at it. I rub, I strike, I scrape. I ask him not to help, as any assistance would void the appointment.

You vigorously scour, scrape, and rub that poor doomed beam with your steel spoon, a one-man torchlight show for the ages. Ashfang snorts, amused beyond measure. "Ah, Agent Fenwright, the village’s fate now balances on the resilience of a spoon and your stubborn elbow grease. If futility were an art, you'd be Picasso." Rain mocks your efforts with sizzling reprieves, each fizz a dreary encore. The dragon's mid-smoke chuckle is your only applause. Yet, this torturous dedication somehow cements your absurd authority — though the fire remains shy.

I report my progress honestly. None. I note that the oath binds the appointed agent to attempt, not to succeed.

You confess the undramatic truth: the spoon remains a lousy flint, your fire-starting schooling incomplete. Ashfang snorts a smoky laugh, "Ah, the noble art of honest failure! A rare spice for dragons used to flames over facts." His glare flickers with grudging respect. "Attempting suffices for oath's sake, but success would sweeten your appointment." Rain continues its mocking percussion. The village cools momentarily, embers hesitant. Your spork-provoked pact lingers, a curious truce of smoke, spoons, and semantics. Seven turns dwindle; your move, grand agent of absurdity?

I hand back the spoon, still cold, and inform him the agent has discharged the duty in full and the account is closed.

You return the spoon, its steel indifferent to your grand finale, and declare your agency discharged: the appointed village burner has duly attempted, fulfilling the letter of that fiery oath. Ashfang's scales flicker with bemused disbelief, then a grudging grin unfolds—your procedural farce has pinned a dragon to his own words. With a theatrical puff of smoke and a muttered curse on earthly paperwork, he coils away, leaving the village untouched under a rain-washed dusk. Victory tastes faintly metallic, like steel spoons and broken vows.