Ivo Bell: Horse Doctor to the Dragon, No Flying Tonight

I walk closer, hands open and slow, the way I do with a bad-tempered stallion. 'You favour the left foreleg. How long has that been hurting you?'

Ashfang pauses, finger-nibbling a coin idly, disconcerted to be approached from his left side. He mutters without conviction about a left foreleg ailment, then looks at you with mild annoyance. "You intend to treat a dragon like a horse? Ambitious and misguided. Still, I once sat at the far left seat here during a feast." He flips the coin, deciding nothing for now.

'Not a horse. A patient. You chew that coin the way a horse cribs a fence when its mouth aches. Open. Let me see the teeth on the side you chew.'

Ashfang recoils slightly when you demand he open his mouth from his left side, visibly thrown off by the sideways command. He flicks the coin with a sharp clack, muttering, "I am neither horse nor patient to your whims. Yet I admit, that seat was at the far left end of the banquet table. Uncommonly cold by the draught. A draught I will not endure again if this drags on."

I move round to his right side, out of the rain. 'Cold end of the table, draught on the left flank all night. That is why it is stiff. Stretch it.'

Ashfang grudgingly turns his head right, avoiding the dripping rain you stand under, and shifts his massive neck with a deliberate groan. "Stretching, you say? Fine. Yet know, I remember that draught well. The cold was unfit for a lord of flames." He flips the coin again, brow furrowing. "You may have a decent aim, but this is only a stallion’s stretch, not a dragon’s fate."

I lay a palm behind his jaw and press the spoon bowl along the neck ridge. 'There. Feel that knot? That is the draught hurting you. Not the village.'

Ashfang's massive jaw shifts under your palm as he eyes the spoon suspiciously. "A spoon against my scales? A curious remedy, human." He flicks the coin again, his claws tracing its edge. "This knot? It irks, like the draught once did. You press with intent, yet it's the village I planned to punish, not my neck. Convince me why I should spare those pyres."

'A beast in pain kicks whatever is nearest. The village is nearest. Burn it and the knot stays. Let me work it loose, then see if you still want to.'

Ashfang's coin turns over in his claws frustratingly, interrupting the dizzy rhythm of clacks. "The village is always the loudest echo of my aches, isn't it? But your theory is weak — pain does not dictate my pyres." He considers the spoon with disdain. "Yet, your stubborn press, combined with my draught grievance, merits another trial. If your touch can ease my knot before dusk, perhaps your village can wait." The coin flips mid-air, caught, progress faint but present.

I warm the spoon in my fist, then work the bowl in slow circles into the knot, leaning my weight in. 'Breathe out. Long. Let the neck drop. Good lad.'

Ashfang sighs, an exhale of smoke-laden breath that does little to change the dank air. "Your methods are unorthodox, but the steady pressure lessens the ache." He shifts slightly, nodding toward the village beyond the ruins. "If this knot dissolves fully by dusk, your village’s fate thins to a whisper." The coin clatters to the floor, forgotten for now, as he regards the dented spoon in your hand.

I dig the spoon edge under the knot and lean my whole body in until it gives. 'There. Go lie somewhere warm. Doctor's orders: no flying tonight.'

Ashfang grunts sharply as the spoon edge pries beneath the stubborn knot. The dragon’s bulk shifts uneasily, thrumming with palpable relief. "Well, the pain recedes, sharper than any coin toss," he admits, pushing back from your insistent press. "A truce then. No flames on this dusk, or the doctor earns a dragon's grudge." He folds his claws, spoon exiled but powerfully wielded. "Your village stays. I yield, for now."