Pim Halloway: A Symbol Over Spectacle: The Cold Victory

Hello! Are you actually hungry, or is that a joke? And why are you burning the village? Did they do something to you?

Ashfang blinks at you, the spoon in your hand. "Hungry? Yes, but today's diet is stubborn. Burning villages is tradition; spectacle, not vendetta. You— you don't look like you want to see a barbecue tonight." He tilts his massive head, intrigued. "What makes you think the village wronged me?"

I don't, you just said tradition. Whose tradition? Who taught you? And if it's a spectacle, who's it for? Nobody's here but me and I'd rather not.

Ashfang's eyes flick over the spoon, then back to you. "Old dragon ways, passed down like a recipe without measurements. The fire dance is less about witnesses than proving the flame still lives within me." He flexes a claw once, apparently unrelated. "Not much use having traditions if the audience is just drizzle and dust, eh? Why, are you volunteering?"

Yes! I volunteer. Prove the flame lives to me, right here, on this spoon. Heat it till it glows. That's proof. Why must a whole village be proof?

Ashfang snorts, a tiny plume of smoke barely warming the dusky air. "A glowing spoon? Intriguing, but my flames require more convincing than your culinary challenge. You wield a spoon, not a forge—and I'm on a diet, remember? If I flare up here, I risk burning my own scales. Do you have proof your spoon will handle fire without bending or blunting?" His skepticism burns brighter than your plan.

Wait. Fire burns your own scales? That was a very small plume. Is the flame not really living any more? Is that why it has to be a village, far off?

Ashfang sighs, a smoky breath that curls like a weak candle flame. "The fire's spirit dims with age and restraint—today's cayenne is yesterday's blaze. A village's distance keeps my scales intact; too close and I scorch myself. A reminder: dragons don't nap well with singed skin." He glances at your spoon, now just a spoon, and adds dryly, "I admire your hope, but proximity has costs."

So you nap badly and the fire hurts. Why not just stop? Who would know? I won't tell. Have you tried soup? I hold up the spoon. What do you eat?

Ashfang snorts, amused but not convinced. "Soup? Liquid courage for a dragon on a diet? No thanks, I prefer my meals a bit more... substantial. Today it's less fire and more patience." He eyes the spoon with mock suspicion. "As for stopping, who'd know indeed—except me, the knight of the diminishing flame, keeping my scales less crispy." He shudders and flicks a claw. "Curious offer, but soup's not on the menu."

Knight of the diminishing flame. That's sad. Do you want it back? Burning a village won't fix it, you said so yourself. What would? Tell me honestly.

Ashfang lowers his head, considering, then mutters, "What would I want? Not this charred encore, certainly. Restoration, perhaps—something to rekindle the old heat inside without singeing my hide. A symbol, not smoke. Yet no relic, no pact or treasure claws, just this old arena and a diet that forbids the real fire." He flicks a claw disdainfully. "Honest, you say? It's a cold hunger for meaning more than flame."

A symbol, then. I walk up and press the spoon into his claw. Plain steel, never burns, never bends. Keep it and keep the village. Your relic now.

Ashfang blinks at the steel spoon pressed into his claw. "Plain, honest—no fiery spectacle, just steel that never yields or complains. Perhaps this is the relic I needed. Not a blaze, but a cold, steadfast symbol for a dragon who can't set fire without singeing himself." He lowers his head in a slow nod. "Keep the village safe, human. Tonight, this spoon carries more weight than any inferno."