Corrin Vale: The Spoon Duel That Saved The Village (And Dragon…

I challenge Ashfang to single combat for the village. Winner decides whether it burns. I say it as though I have a plan.

Ashfang curls a lip, smoke whispering from his nostrils like a broken kettle. "Combat? With a spoon? Darling, I decline to imagine the epic poetry that'd spin from my roasting your offer." His tail flicks disdainfully, sending dust motes swirling. Not even the faintest flicker of interest brightens his eyes. You've just signed up for a culinary joke's punchline—and he’s the heckler. Your 'plan' remains deliciously undisclosed, but if it's dueling, the odds are less 'epic' and more 'epic fail.' Your move, intrepid spoon-bearer.

He laughs. I let him finish. Then I ask whether he accepts, because a laugh is not an answer and I want this on record.

Ashfang's reverberating chuckle fades to a hiss. "Accept? Oh, little spoon-wielder, I accept nothing less than a feast for thought. And your question, while marching bravely into the arena of decorum, doesn't bend my scales." His eyes gleam with the patience of a cat considering a particularly dull yarn. "I'll happily mark it on record—as another morsel seasoned with futility." Rain drips louder. Embers tease the village edges. The dragon’s smirk sharpens, daring you to out-spoon this banquet of folly. Your move.

He accepts. I say the old form binds us both: one weapon, the same weapon, no fire, first to yield. I ask if he objects.

Ashfang blinks, scales shimmering with bemusement rather than scorn—a flicker of genuine surprise, or perhaps amusement, that you wield a spoon as both weapon and bond. "One spoon, one battle, no fire, first to yield," he repeats, voice dripping theatrical mockery. "A quaint proposal from the village’s most deluded gourmet. Object? Only to your taste in arms." He arches a wicked brow, the faintest tail flick betraying intrigue. Ember-dusted rain hisses above, tension sharpening. The dragon's smirk narrows; something's rustling in his ancient mind. Your move, future spoon-warrior.

He does not object, because objecting would look nervous. I let that sit. Then I take out the spoon and set my feet.

Ashfang’s tail taps a slow tattoo on the cracked stone floor—anticipation or amusement, it’s hard to say, but his eyes gleam sharper now. "So, the village's champion brandishes a spoon like a sword. I might almost believe you’ve cracked some ancient ritual... or completely lost your mind." Rain hisses through the broken roof, mingling with distant crackles at the village edge. The embers dance tantalizingly close to chaos. The dragon leans forward, nostrils flaring, ready to begin a duel whose rules are stranger than your weapon choice. Your move, poised spoon-duelist.

I ask him to produce his. I wait. I offer to wait longer. I note that the light is going and the form was agreed.

Ashfang's amber eyes sharpen, clearly entertained by your insistence. With a flourish that would make a stage magician jealous, he unfurls one clawed finger—an elegant, gleaming talon—but there's no other 'weapon.' "My dear spoon-warrior," he purrs, "my mighty weapon is my wit... and perhaps this." He flicks his tongue. The fading light catches the gleam of his scales, not a weapon in sight. The challenge, by your own terms, seems off-kilter. He waits, dripping sarcasm and patience like molten gold. The village edges glow faintly; dusk is nigh. Your move.

I explain the rule for a combatant who cannot arm himself. He yields, or he fights an armed man using absolutely nothing.

Ashfang's eyes twitch, caught between amusement and a flicker of calculation—a dragon who never thought this little spoon duel might actualize his oath. "Very well," he drawls, voice silky with irony, "I concede before the farce becomes a tragedy. Fighting unarmed against a spoon-wielder? What sort of legendary humiliation awaits me?" He coils back, smoke curling as a reluctant smile ghosts his jaws. You've pried open the gate: the dragon is bound by your unorthodox code. Embers flicker but his intent blinks; the finals loom, spoon in hand and honor half-spared. Your move.

I hold out the spoon, handle first, and offer the honourable exit: yield the village, keep the story, tell it however he likes.

Ashfang studies the spoon—a humble, gleaming olive branch—and then your face. "Yield the village, keep the story," he muses, voice thick with grudging respect. "A tale worth telling more than the usual scorch marks." Slowly, gracefully, he uncoils, smoke curling like a reluctant curtain call. "Very well, spoon-warrior, the village is spared—this night belongs to cleverness, not claws." You made a legend with one spoon and a rule that burned brighter than fire. Dusk sighs, untouched roofs stand, and Ashfang slinks away, likely to ponder which epic poem would pair best with his next meal. Spooned victory, neat and served cold.