Aunt Prudence Vail: Splintwork and Promises at Dusk

Snack indeed. I rap the spoon on his snout. Look at you, lying in the wet with soot down your chest. Sit up. Have you eaten anything proper today?

Ashfang blinks slowly, swearing with mild surprise at being rapped. "Proper? I’m due at a physician tomorrow for my left foreclaw. That’s proper enough." He nudges the spoon with his snout, then regards you coolly. "A small fuss for such an ordinary snack. Your confidence is mildly entertaining."

A physician tomorrow, and you're burning his village tonight. Honestly. Hold that claw out, let me see. Don't pull a face, I've done worse on goats.

Ashfang obliges, lifting his left foreclaw with a disdainful twist, though his expression sours. "Less goat, more dragon," he grumbles, revealing a slightly swollen joint. "Pain's dull, but the appointment's urgent." The spoon taps faintly against the sill, the only sound in the dripping silence. "Are we done gawking? Every moment here steals dusk from my plans."

Swollen, and in the wet all day. I press the cold spoon back to the joint. Hold still. You need warmth and rest, not exertion. Who looks after you?

Ashfang stiffens as the cold spoon meets his claw, a fleeting shiver betraying him. "Careful," he says, though there's no real warmth in the warning. "No one tends my needs." His gaze drifts to the falling dusk. "Such kindness, yet still you stand here full of words while my fire waits. Patience isn't a virtue I'm proud of."

Someone does now. The physician lives in the village. Burn it and no one sees the claw. So: no fire. You'll come down and sit by the smithy hearth.

Ashfang snorts, smoke curling from nostrils despite the rain. "Helpful, but naive. I won’t dangle for a spoon’s promise." His eyes soften briefly, burdened by the looming ache in his claw and the ticking dusk. "No smithy hearth lingers here. This ruin holds memories but no warmth." He shifts uneasily, "I don’t parley with cutlery."

Nobody asked you to parley. I tear a strip off my hem, lay the spoon along the joint as a splint and bind it tight. Hold still. No flying on that.

Ashfang submits to the binding, eyes narrowing on the makeshift splint. "Resourceful, if scatterbrained," he concedes, the weight of dusk hanging heavier on his tone. "No flaming tonight. I’ll hobble to the village, but cross me, and this spoon won't scratch my scales." Rain drips as he attempts a careful step, the promise of no fire unspoken but sharp between you.

Good lad. Slowly, weight on the other three. I walk beside him, a hand on the wet scales. When we get down you'll say sorry to whoever you frightened.

Ashfang teeters, then settles into an awkward shuffle, his smoky sigh more concession than challenge. "Apologies will be as shallow as this splint," he mutters, but relief flickers beneath the gruff tone. "I’d rather face the doctor's scorn than this damp ruin any longer." His claw’s rigidity anchors him; the threat of fire dims with each careful step.

Shallow or not, you'll make them. I lead him down the hill to the physician's door and knock. Doctor! A patient for you. And he's promised: no fire.

Ashfang limps to the physician’s door, the steel spoon securing his claw with awkward steadfastness. He raps the door with claw and spoon, turning with a sigh soaked in reluctant relief. "Not a flare-up tonight," he declares quietly, though pride sinks beneath the damp. "You brought me here, spoon and all. I keep my word: no fire. But this day is marked for scolds, not heroes."