Dane Bailiff: Administrative Procedures Committee, Unfinished…

Why are you so mad bro?

Ashfang snorts, smoke curling from his nostrils. "Mad? My oath binds me, not my mood. Yet you presume to diagnose me with a casual insensitivity I reserve for my enemies' cooking." He flicks a talon on the cracked stone floor. "If I had emotions akin to yours, your questions would annoy me. But I find them merely tedious."

Who has bound you by this oath?

Ashfang coils tighter, voice sure and theatrical. "The baron of the next valley, whom I displeased by scribble and firebrand alike. I swore this village's end in writing, though the letter's timing is embarrassingly vague. So complaining about my motive is the wrong artifice for your play. Now, your next act?" He gestures slightly disdainful, toes one ruined pillar.

How vague is this promise? Would you prefer a clearer and more honorable agreement?

Ashfang raises his head with mock consideration. "An intriguing proposal: to rewrite my dishonour into honour. Yet my quill lies with the baron, and my oath is inked in unsmudgeable fire. I appreciate your theatrical spirit, but clearer promises belong to less fiery beasts. Now, where is your next act, or shall the flames audition next?" He taps a claw impatiently on the floor.

I can offer to transfer the both - by authority of this spoon - and give you a cleaner oath. One in which I am bound to you but you are free.

Ashfang snorts loudly, smoke trailing as he leans closer. "You wield an ordinary spoon as your proof of authority? Astonishing. Binding me with an unenchanted utensil is an intriguing misguided attempt." He examines the spoon disdainfully. "Your clean oath offer tastes faintly of desperation. But I admit the notion sprinkles a hint of novelty." He glances toward the impending dusk. "Convince me before the sky darkens, or the flames have their encore."

I recount the years I have spent as legal authority in this area, cases I have won before the magistrate and explain the mayor granted me the spoon.

Ashfang arches a brow, smoke curling as you detail your legal victories and the mayor's whimsy in granting the spoon. "A spoon as a badge of office? Charming administrative improvisation." He pauses, considering the audacity more than the logic. "Your credentials add some seasoning to your offer. Now show me how this shiny utensil compels me to dip my flames elsewhere." He taps a claw twice, expecting more than a speech.

The spoon, more of a flourishing instrument but does work as a quill in a pinch. Care to scorch that wall and provide me some soot for ink?

Ashfang chuckles dryly, his tail flicking away your suggestion. "A flourish, yes, but this spoon cannot flame a wall, nor will these ruins assist your ink quest." He gestures vaguely at the rain-soaked stones. "If I were to aid your scribbling, the cost would be a feast, not a favor. Speak plainly—how else will you convince me to spare that village?"

Done. You scorch this wall and i shall transfer your vague oath to me and I will be bound to you, celebrated with a village feast next fortnight.

Ashfang arches an eyebrow, savoring your flourish with the spoon. "A noble proposal, adorned with promises and future celebration. Yet, absent a mechanism binding the flames, your feast remains a script unperformed. I hold my oath as inked and my tongue for fire. Until your hand forges a tangible bond, the village endures a waiting act." He shifts, smoke curling humorless. "The dusk applauds patience, not parley."