Hollis Vane the Younger: A Clerk, a Spoon and Too Much Procedure

'The cutlery is not for me. I am here to relocate the village into this spoon before dusk. Standard procedure. Hold still and count to nine.'

Ashfang regards your spoon with an expression that might be described as mild amusement or severe disappointment. "Vague magic tricks are for sorcerers, not villagers," he snaps. He does, however, fold his wings slightly, as if calculating. No hidden rooms or portals respond to your spoon's extreme ambition. "Counting to nine won't undo a promise; the baron wanted this day, not this hour."

'Not magic. Filing. The baron wanted this day, so I have taken today off the calendar. It is in my left pocket. Tomorrow is available at a small fee.'

Ashfang's eyes flick to your pocket as if expecting sparkles or smoke. "Calendars can't be pocketed," he says flatly. "And the baron's deadline is ironclad, not subject to your whim or fees. Business can't be postponed like waiting for a bus." He taps a claw against the ground. "What guarantees you against scorched toast instead?"

'Nothing. I am toast already. It was done to me in the spring and it did not take. Now: which baron? I have three on file and one of them is a goose.'

Ashfang's jaws snap shut with a dry click. "I do not muse on barons like some tavern drunk naming his equals. Nor do I care if one is a goose. It is the baron's word I honor, not their poultry." He shifts, eyeing your spoon as if hoping it might tap dance an explanation. "You say 'toast' as if you're already crispy. That changes nothing. Unless your toast is offer to be buttered."

'Buttering is acceptable. Spoon provided.' I hold it out. 'Once buttered I become the baron under the butter clause, and the baron says: no fire.'

Ashfang's snort rattles a shard of stone. "Butter's nice, but I signed no butter clause. Legalese from a spoon-wielding self doesn't smell like a contract." He leans forward. "If buttering made you a baron, I'd watch my feathers." Steel doesn't distract his eyes from the spoon. "Show me a baron's seal or a blowhard with a crown, then we talk fire."

I press the spoon bowl into the wet ash on the floor and lift it. An oval. 'The baron's seal. Oval, as they all are. Fire cancelled. Initial here.'

Ashfang's gaze follows the spoon's arc and the ash's shallow imprint. "An impression in ash is hardly a seal, and tells me nothing of the baron's will." He taps a claw on the ground, leaving crisp marks. "If ashes had weight, every cook would claim contracts. This is a bluff, or worse, a prank on my patience." His tail flicks, scattering ash flickers. "Prove it with ink, or prepare to feed the flames," he says, unimpressed.

I hold the spoon under the drip until it fills, stir in ash, and write on the flagstone: NO FIRE. THE BARON. 'Ink. As requested. In duplicate.'

The spoon collects rainwater and ash, muddy and unconvincing. Ashfang looks down at the crude scrawl, then at you. “Ink from a spoon under rain? Your contract’s in water, not words. I respect marks made in indelible ways, not smudged pleas. Dusk doesn’t pause for amateur calligraphy.” He shifts, the threat to your village hanging heavier than the dripping spoon.

'Indelible. Understood.' I gouge NO FIRE into the flagstone with the spoon handle, then sit on it. 'Filed under me. I close at dusk. Good day, baron.'

Ashfang watches you etch 'NO FIRE' into the flagstone with the spoon’s blunt handle. The grooves will linger, but he remains upright, unimpressed. "Persistent, yet powerless." He flexes claws. "Marks in stone don’t bind a dragon, nor erase a sworn word to the baron. I’ll remember this quaint filing, but the village will still smell of smoke if I wish."