Chad Everdusk: Ashfang Buys In: The Spoon Franchise Pitch

I ask Ashfang how many villages he burned last year, and whether he is honestly happy with those numbers.

Ashfang snorts, smoke curling from his nostrils like a disgruntled teapot. "Last year? A modest five. I keep count with the precision of a tax collector — numbers matter." His eyes, sharp as broken glass, glitter with something oddly like pride, or maybe regret. "Happy? That depends on your definition. Satisfaction isn't the dragon's thing; efficiency is. But tell me, spoon-wielder, why dredge up old embers when new flames await?" The rain hisses on shattered tiles, an audience to your awkward Q&A.

I tell him he is leaving money on the table. One dragon, one village, one night. That is not a business, it is a hobby.

Ashfang laughs, a sound like boulders tumbling down a well. "A hobby? No, mortal—you misunderstand. I am an artist; devastation is my medium. Money? Pah! Dragons disdain petty commerce. What would you suggest? Invest in village bonds or perhaps open a fiery consultancy? This spoon of yours—it doesn’t look like a ledger. Unless you plan to spoon-feed me wisdom, you’re wasting rain and breath." He flexes a claw, embers trailing, awaiting your next sparkling idea beneath the dripping ruin.

I hold up the spoon. The entire starter kit. Whoever holds it is Tier One, and I have been Tier One for eleven years.

You brandish the spoon like an ancient badge of honor, invoking the mythical Tier One status with all the gravitas of a boy scout waving a patently unimpressive merit badge. Ashfang blinks — a twitch almost human — and murmurs, "Tier One, is it? Impressive! I've heard legends of such warriors, armed with... culinary cutlery. But tell me, Champion of the Spoon, does your rank grant you flaming immunity or just delusions of grandeur?" His tail flicks, sending a small plume of ash your way. The rain mocks your credentials with a relentless patter, but the dragon’s curiosity is... piqued. Progress inches forward, spoon in hand.

I scratch the structure into the ash with the spoon: him at the top, seven dragons beneath, forty-nine beneath those.

You etch a crude hierarchy in the ash: Ashfang perched atop seven dragons, each ruling seven more—a draconic bureaucracy sketched with your humble spoon. Ashfang’s eyes narrow, smoke curling in distracted circles. "Intriguing," he hisses, "you map my little empire with... seasoning utensils? A charming madness. Perhaps this explains my paperwork backlog." His tone slips to grudging respect, the first hint of a real crack amid flame and fury. The rain tap-dances on ruins like impatient clerks, awaiting your next move.

I ask him to run the numbers with me. He never leaves this hall again and the burning is done by his downline.

Ashfang pauses, the inferno of his fury momentarily doused by bureaucratic curiosity. "Run the numbers? With you?" His voice drips with surprised amusement. "A tempting proposal, spoon-wielder. Imagine—delegating my pyrotechnic pleasures to underlings while I remain in this cozy ruin. No more rain, no more soot in my scales." He leans closer, smoke swirling like a feather boa. "If your arithmetic holds, I'm intrigued. But don’t expect me to cuddle your spoon afterward." The rain blurs the edges of your spreadsheets; the dragon's empire may just be your leverage yet.

I point at the flaw in tonight. Burn it now and he has no demo village to show recruits. You cannot sell arson with a crater.

You jab the spoon at the smoldering bones of last night's victim, a charred husk too raw to parade. Ashfang's eyes flicker—a blend of irritation and dawning respect. "A living demo, you say? Without fresh bones to flaunt, my fiery flair falls flat. Clever spoon-wielder, threatening my recruitment pitch cuts deeper than dragonfire." He licks an ash-coated lip, clearly weighing charred collateral versus his pride. Rain dampens the ruin's echo, clock ticking toward dusk. Your jab pins his next move like a particularly crispy fly.

I press the spoon into his claw as his starter kit, welcome him to my downline, and congratulate him on the passive income.

With the solemnity of signing a peace treaty—or a particularly tedious expense report—you slide the spoon into Ashfang's claw, his new "starter kit." His scales shimmer with something suspiciously like corporate compliance. "Welcome to my downline," you declare, savoring the moment. "Enjoy your passive income, flamer." Ashfang exhales a smoky chuckle, the promised village spared as the dragon investors himself into a less incendiary venture. The rain applauds, the ruins relieved. Not a single hearth burned, and you've proven spoons can broker peace better than firebrands. Who knew?