Tobias Quill: Menu Critic Saves the Village by Review

'A snack. Leaking room, no table, no greeting, and the host opens with a threat. One star, and that is for the ambience. What are you serving?'

Ashfang snorts, steam puffing from his nostrils like burnt soufflé. “One star for ambience is a generous flogging of goodwill. I offer a rare burning delight, crisp and smoky.” He eyes your spoon sourly. “But your silverware might wilt before the first bite. Taste or terror, your choice.”

'Steel, not silver; learn your service. Crisp and smoky is what a cook says when he burnt it. A charred village. Name one thing you actually taste.'

Ashfang wrinkles his snout, his breath warming a patch of damp earth. “A hint of scorched cedar wood, the iron tang of fear, and a subtle note from last month's rival's pyre downwind. Not quite a roast, but robust and final.” He coughs once, muttering, “Annoying how that blasted competition set the tone. Makes my 'work' all administrative.”

'A rival did a pyre last month and you do a pyre this month. That is not a menu, that is a tribute act. Who is the rival, and what did he burn?'

Ashfang huffs through flaring nostrils. "The rival? Vurnis the Pyromage. Last month, a village named Eldhollow—barns, homes, a tavern. All ash, all spectacle. He turned a village into a bonfire and stole the limelight from an old dragon's closure." He frowns. "But here, the script must differ. I won't repeat a ghost's act."

'Then a script no dragon has done: sit down and be served. Vurnis got a bonfire. You get a review. Nobody has ever reviewed a dragon at table.'

Ashfang blinks, chest heaving like a tired furnace. "Sit down? Beside ruins with nothing but rain and rust? I doubt my claws will fit that notion, food critic. But a unique review might spare the village's smoke and ash." He shifts uneasily, glancing beyond to the shadowed village. "Fine. A truce for the evening, if your steel spoon can hold a story better than a fire."

I catch rain in the spoon, sip, grimace. 'Water: flat, notes of roof. First course. The village tavern does better; the review moves there at dusk.'

Ashfang wrinkles his snout at your tasting, unimpressed. "Water collecting the roof's flavor? A critic's palate is wasted on such drivel. Still, you hold the spoon, and a promise." He exhales smoke reluctantly. "Dusk, then. Judge whether the embers here sing or silence. My patience frays; I have forms to file and firelords to placate."

'So Vurnis has you filing forms. Pitiful. Verdict so far: host, thin-skinned; setting, damp; menu, plagiarised. Show me a dish of your own.'

Ashfang lifts his scaly chin, a sigh hot enough to steam the puddles. "A dish of my own? Administrative flame, simmered in bureaucratic ire, served cold with a dash of forced ritual." He flicks a claw absently toward the village. "This affair is more paperwork than pyre, and less artistry than attendance."

I scratch the review into the flagstone with the spoon: ASHFANG. DECLINED TO BURN. HIS ONE ORIGINAL DISH. FOUR STARS. 'Tavern. Now. I am buying.'

Ashfang leans back, exhaustion melting into reluctant respect as he watches you carve the verdict. "Four stars? Unheard of for a meal I did not set aflame. A truce it is, with this spoon as judge and witness." He licks his claws, voice already softer. "Tavern it shall be. A quiet night, some ale, no char. I’ll meet you there, critic." His tail uncurls, settling on peace's uneasy edge.