THE DRAGON & THE SPOON
Crispin Growse: Unclaimed Gravy, Unclaimed Glory
Crispin Growse
The story so far
For two hundred years the village and the dragon had an arrangement, and it suited everybody. Every midsummer the people climbed the hill to the banquet hall and fed Ashfang a feast, with him at the head of the table, first cut of everything, toasted with the good cutlery. It was cheaper than being eaten and, most years, a lovely evening. In return he left the fields alone and saw off wolves when asked nicely.
Then the roof fell in, forty winters ago, and nobody fixed it. The village argued about who should pay, then got tired of arguing, then quietly stopped climbing the hill altogether. The hall filled with rain and nettles. Ashfang waited. A year, then ten, then a few more, with the patience of something that counts in centuries and the grievance of something that has counted every missed dinner. This spring he sent word, singed into the miller’s door: forty feasts owed, due at dusk on midsummer, payable in the only coin a village has, which is fire.
The village did try. It sent a goat, which he ate and declared no substitute for a feast. It sent a petition, which came back with the spelling corrected. It sent the mayor’s nephew, who is fine, and came back down the hill very fast. All that is left of the old feast service is a single steel spoon, dug out of the rubble under the fallen roof, and they have sent it up the hill with you, because a spoon is what they have and you are who they have.
Ashfang knows all of this. He has been in the hall since noon, coiled where the head of the table used to be, and it has started to rain on him.
I’m going to defeat you. I have faith. *hum softly*
Ashfang scoffs, tail flicking with theatrical impatience. "Faith is a charming weapon against a dragon, but sadly, it neither burns nor cuts. Your humming is not a battle strategy; it's a lullaby for fools." He eyes the spoon. "The gravy boat still hasn't floated home. Do you have it? No? Then what, pray tell, makes you think faith and a dull spoon suffice?"
I just know I can beat you…
Ashfang arches a brow the size of a boulder. "Knowing is eager—surely a virtue for losing. Confidence bordering on denial, with a spoon against flame, hmm? The gravy boat's absence galls; it robbed my table of evening grace. You set no hand to prove your conviction. Shall I prepare to watch a spoon wobble futilely while the village burns?"
Stand aside
Ashfang narrows a gaze loaded with theatrical disdain. “Stand aside? A tempting offer for a spectator—but I desire performance, not a curtain call. My silver gravy boat’s absence nags like a forgotten line. Yield or produce a plan, else this act ends with ashes.” He snorts, skeptically eyeing a steel spoon that would struggle to part the rain itself.
Oh, I saw that boat in the stream nearby…I can show you
Ashfang exhales a plume of smoke that fails to impress anyone but himself. "A stream? How pedestrian a hiding spot for something silver and so exquisite. Show me, then—lead and prove your claim, lest I turn my attention to more promising charred morsels." He watches your sink with a mocking grin. "Not every pipe dream wades in water."
I walk down the hill to the stream and retrieve it for him. Here you go friend
You plunge through underbrush, down the rain-slick slope, steel spoon clinking against stones. At the stream you glimpse no silver gleam—only mud and fallen leaves. Returning empty-handed, you offer the spoon as tribute. Ashfang snorts. “Your retrieval skills match your bravery: admirable for comedy. The gravy boat remains missing, as does a credible plan.” He gestures impatiently, awaiting your next move.
I head to the stream in the other side of the hill to get the gravy boat.
Ashfang's deep chuckle fills the empty hall, dry and conclusive. "Another wild goose chase. Your spoon and second pilgrimage amuse only yourself. The gravy boat eludes us both, and so does your plan. With dusk fallen, the village becomes ash and memory. Go search elsewhere, human—your theatrics end here, and I feast on the finale you failed to rewrite."
THE COUNCIL
“Your humming is not a battle strategy; it's a lullaby for fools.”
Failure.
20/100Unclaimed Gravy, Unclaimed Glory
You led with limp greetings, faith and humming—a mix best suited to soothing orphans, not dragons. Your 'stand aside' bid inspired less awe, more yawns. Bluffing about the gravy boat sent you on an aimless spoon-wielding errand, returning empty and out of ideas. No lever was pulled, no threat checked, and dusk brought only a bonfire finale. Next time, bring a plan or at least the right cutlery.
“Crispin Growse, the cleric who followed the gravy boat rumor twice and brought back nothing but an empty spoon. Villagers cite him when explaining why paperwork beats adventure.”
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HOW IT SCORED
FAILURE20/100
ADMIN
ADMIN / MAKE IT A STORYBOOK
No polished retelling and no pictures yet.
ADMIN / TAKE IT DOWN
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