Ottilie Rask: The Record that Averted the Pyre

'Snack later. The village: what was the exact wrong, what year, and who was present when you swore? Every account I have contradicts the last.'

Ashfang tilts his head, unimpressed. “The exact wrong is irrelevant, human. Year 703 by the old counting, the mayor, the blacksmith, and one frail scribe swore I would burn the village if their debts weren’t paid. Small talk bores me, but your obsession with facts diverts. And no, I don't discuss my left foreclaw — physician appointment tomorrow.” He snorts. “Do you bring any real terms with that spoon?

'703. So THEY swore, not you. A debt of what, to whom, what sum? And a scribe was present, so it was written. Where is that page? I take no hearsay.'

Ashfang exhales a plume of smoke, flicking rain from a claw. “Debt? To the Crown. A sum vast enough to eat three villages and still leave crumbs. The scribe’s page? Burned last autumn in the mayor’s pyre ritual. A pity, but true.” He gestures at your spoon. “If ink were fire, your spoon might blaze. Alas, words alone are ash.” His foreclaw twitches, reminding you of tomorrow’s appointment.

'A Crown debt collected by burning the debtor. The Crown gets ash. That does not hold. Page burned, scribe gone: you are the only source. Careful.'

Ashfang eyes your steel spoon and sighs. "Carefulness is a fine virtue, but you wield it poorly. I am the only source? Then you stand alone against a dragon who prefers debts settled in scorched earth. Your spoon offers no leverage, and my left foreclaw still aches for tomorrow." His gaze sharpens. "One offer: surrender the village now, or watch it turn to ash at dusk."

I kneel and scratch the flagstone with the spoon. 'Draft one: Ashfang, debt collector, burned a village for a page he could not show. Corrections?'

Ashfang snorts, a puff of smoke curling like a reluctant answer. “Your 'draft' is as hollow as your spoon’s depth. No corrections. You think naming debts rewrites embers or stops what was sworn? I’ve not paused for quills before. But I do for my foreclaw’s doctor tomorrow. Time, not your drafts, weighs down my patience.” He looks beyond at the village. “Final offer remains.”

'Four mentions of that foreclaw. Fine. The doctor tomorrow: name, and where he lives. Because the only physician for twenty miles is in that village.'

Ashfang glances at you with what might be described as disdain if dragons cared for such things. “Dr. Grelm is his name, dwells in the village’s northeast house, under a crooked chimney. I mention him only because delaying the visit makes the claw worse, not to aid your cause. Your spoon scratches a map with no roads. Choose soon: my appointment or ash.”

I scratch it down. 'Grelm, northeast house, crooked chimney. Burned at dusk with the rest. Claw untreated. That is the record unless you say else.'

Ashfang's gaze narrows. “Bold record you keep, writing my fate alongside mine afflictions. Grelm’s house stands, crooked chimney baked hard by years, not ash today. You propose a story where I burn the healer who could help my claw? That’s a weighty claim for a spoon’s scratch.” He shifts, calculating dusk’s approach. “One last chance, human.”

I strike the line and scratch a new one: Ashfang kept his appointment. Then I stand and walk toward the crooked chimney. 'Come. Grelm sees you now.'

Ashfang's smoke billows in reluctant admission: “I kept the appointment. My claw costs time, and Dr. Grelm’s waiting is a debt I pay myself. Your spoon etches truth where fire once erased it. Burn the village? Now that would worsen my condition and reputations alike. Fine — the village remains, untouched, for one appointment kept.” He spreads his wings, preparing to leave. “Lead on, storyteller.”