Wren Halloway: Midwife at the Dragon’s Table: Spoon Diplomacy

I watch how Ashfang moves and breathes, and ask him plainly whether something is hurting him tonight.

Ashfang's scales glisten with rain, eyes flickering like storm-lit glass. He snorts, smoke curling from nostrils. “Pain? Ha! Only the exquisite ache of boredom, midwife. The village’s scent is the only spice tonight. But you, wielding a spoon? That’s novel entertainment.” His tail lashes dry rubble; each hiss sounds like broken promises and burnt toast. He clearly enjoys the absurdity. Your blunt question snagged his curiosity like a moth on a lampshade—good start.

I ask him to show me where it hurts and how long it has been that way, keeping my hands and spoon in plain sight.

Ashfang lowers his great head, scales shimmering like spilled oil, and gestures with a clawed finger to the far end of the banquet hall's collapsed ceiling: a jagged hole dripping rain into the gloom. “This old wound,” he growls, voice grating like gravel on tin, “a souvenir from a jealous rival’s bargain gone sour. A sting not from fire but from promises scorched to ash. The ache pulses when the rain falls heavy, a constant reminder.” He arcs a claw near a curious, rusting iron ring embedded in a cracked stone column. His snort sings through the hall, the spoon and your calm hands a curious contrast to his smoldering fury. No bite yet, just smoke and swagger.

I look closely at the spot he shows me, using the spoon's polished bowl to catch what little light there is.

Your steel spoon, pitiful in size but dazzling in intent, catches the weak rainwater dripping through the jagged hole. As the feeble light glints off the spoon’s bowl, you notice faint scorch marks circling the rusted iron ring—ritual remnants, or perhaps an old binding gone wrong. Ashfang watches with a grin twisting his snout, as if amused that a spoon — yes, a spoon! — serves as his spotlight. "A shiny morsel," he sneers, "maybe this glint holds more than your meager courage?" Your probing gaze tugs at more than just light; curiosity bubbles beneath the dragon’s grumbling facade. What next?

I tell him what I see and what I could do with a spoon, and ask permission before touching anything.

Ashfang’s smoky chuckle rumbles like a kettle left too long on the fire. “Permission from a snack? How quaint. But I admit, this forkless trinket of yours caught my fancy. In your hands, that dull spoon might just scrape secrets from the rust. Touch, then—careful, or this banquet becomes a banquet of regrets.” His eyes gleam with a flicker of reluctant trust, the first sign that your odd little spoon might just be more than a utensil to this fiery gourmand.

I work the spoon's handle gently under the problem, slow and steady, talking him through each movement.

Wielding your spoon like a surgeon's scalpel, you pry gently at the rusted iron ring embedded in the stone, narrating each careful inch as if coaxing a recalcitrant patient. Ashfang watches, his snout twitching in reluctant interest instead of fury. "Not bad for a utensil meant to ladle soup," he muses, smoke billowing cautiously. The ring shifts, a faint shimmer of old magic loosening—a binding unravels, and Ashfang's growl softens to a grumble. The dragon's ache eases, but the village still flickers at risk. Your slow spoon-wizardry has scooped real leverage—now what next?

I finish, rinse the spoon in the rain, and ask how it feels now and what a dragon does with a night off from pain.

You rinse the spoon in the rain, droplets scattering like tiny silver swords. Ashfang snorts noisily, the ache visibly retreating from his eyes. “Strangely... lighter. Perhaps this spoon is a wizard’s wand in disguise,” he mutters, smoke curling in a thoughtful spiral. “A dragon with a night off from pain? Long tales told by old stones, a nap in the cold moonlight, or maybe... a feast with friends — unheard of, I know.” He flicks a tired fang. “So, midwife, what spell will you conjure next with your humble utensil?” The village’s flickering lights beg for your dazzle; time thins like bad ale.

I ask Ashfang to spare the village as my fee, and to fly once over it so they know the healer kept her word.

Ashfang snorts, smoke wreathing the soaked ruins: “Spare a feast for tricks and tricks with spoons? Bold midwife.” He unfurls massive wings, dripping rain and grudges, and with a final sardonic grin mutters, “A flight then—proof that even dragons keep contracts forged in metal and rain.” Aloft, he arcs once over the village, scales glinting like dull cutlery, and lands away from the trembling thatch. Dusk folds gently over spared homes—your spoon, absurd but oddly worthy, has turned a fiery fate into a quiet legend. Who said cutlery can't put out fires?