Dob Yarrow: Drowned in Wet Tablecloth Ambitions

I tap the spoon on his nearest tooth like a wine glass. 'A toast! To Ashfang, who has never once been served properly. Tonight, that changes.'

Ashfang leans back, eyeing the spoon tapping his tooth. "A toast? To me? That's a start, if only because it's uncommon. But changing the guest list at the last minute is poor planning. You understand my sister expects this letter tonight, and I won't set it down till she arrives." He flicks the letter, still sealed. "Your toasts don’t feed dragons, nor do spoons stop burning villages."

A letter! Perfect. I hold the spoon up as a microphone. 'Sir, a dramatic reading. Give it here, I do a tremendous sister voice. Very nasal.'

Ashfang snorts. "A dramatic reading? My sister’s letter demands serious custody, not a comedy act. Besides, you wield a spoon, not a stage contract. I hold this letter because she might still come. Your voices and the spoons won’t change that." He crosses his arms tight, eyes fixed on the letter.

Might still come? She's HERE. I drape a wet tablecloth over my head like wings and flap in. 'Brother! It is I! I have come for my letter!'

Ashfang blinks at the wet tablecloth flapping like wings. "Impressive commitment, but I don't recall authorizing theatrics. The letter is still mine to keep. If you're playing the part of my sister, you’ll need more than soggy cloth and a spoon. It's not just about coming; it's about convincing. And your wing span is sadly lacking." He taps the letter against the hall's stone wall.

Notes! Love notes. I yank a second tablecloth for span, stuff the spoon in my mouth as a fang. 'Brother, you never write. Mother is worried SICK.'

Ashfang sighs, focusing briefly on the soggy wings and spoon fang attempt. "Mother’s worries... how touching, and melodramatic. Yet, I hold this letter because my sister’s lateness is no less real for your theatrics. You have the flair of a tavern minstrel, not a pact broker. Until that letter changes hands, the village waits in the shadows, and so do I." He shifts, letter clutched tighter.

Pact broker! Even better! I flip a table upright, bang the spoon as a gavel. 'Office is open. Sister's proxy accepts delivery. Sign the spoon.'

Ashfang frowns, assessing the upright table. "An office? With a spoon as a signature? Your creativity is noted, but this ruin lacks a legal department, and I doubt a spoon's scrawl holds much weight here." He shifts the letter in his grip. "Though I admire your persistence, that letter stays with me. Until my sister arrives, your proxy is as fictional as that gavel."

No legal department? Then I hire one. I climb onto the table, cup the spoon to my ear. 'Hello, sister? Yes he's still HERE. Sulking. Come get him.'

Ashfang stares, unimpressed by the improvised call centre. "Absent line, static noise, no answer. I’m afraid your telephone is broken, or nonexistent." He shifts the letter restlessly. "Still, your message is clear. Now, if your sister actually appears, perhaps this will end. Otherwise, you waste spoons and time."

Big finish! I sprint up his tail, plant the spoon in his crest like a flag and bellow at the rain. 'SHE ISN'T COMING, ASHFANG. BUT I DID. ENCORE!'

You clamber up Ashfang's scaly tail, ignoring it twitching with mild irritation, and jam the spoon into his crest. His tail whips once, flinging you sideways into a puddle. “Bravo for effort, and equally for poor judgment.” He shakes the letter, still sealed. “That spoon's nothing but a celebrity pin. The village burns, and you make a fine snack spectacle. Encore is right, human.”