Garrick Stone: Brave Failings of Spoon and Stone

I plant my feet on the dry flagstone, grip the spoon like a dagger, and go for the soft skin under his lowered jaw. 'Talk is for the losing side.'

Ashfang raises a skeptical brow at your brandished spoon, a weapon better suited to pudding than dragon flesh. "Imprecise term, 'losing side.' You haven't lost until I decide the contest has ended," he says. He tolerates your jab because he remembers exactly where he sat at this hall's grand table—far from here, and far from a village-burning mood. "Try again, chit."

I scramble up the rubble heap by the pillar for height, spoon reversed in my fist. 'Then it is not over. Lower your head again. I want the eye.'

Ashfang's eye narrows with what might be amusement or mild irritation as you clumsily ascend the rubble. "Precise orders, finally. But 'I want the eye' is childish. Specify intentions. Blinding causes inconvenience, not cessation of hostilities." He leans back, unflustered, his massive head still distant from your spoon's reach. "Remember, I once dined far from this pillar, not meddling with pests."

'Intention: a blind dragon cannot find a village. Clear enough.' I leap from the heap at his neck, spoon aimed at the seam between two scales.

You launch yourself and jab the spoon at the seams between Ashfang's scaled armor. He doesn't flinch; the seams are narrow, tight, and nearly fused. "Ambitious, but deluded," he says, tracing a claw alongside your attempt. "The village remains visible to me by other means. No magic in that spoon, unlike your misguided hope." He recalls his seat was near the main dais, away from your current gambit.

I hang on the neck ridge and haul myself toward his snout. 'Scales are shut. Nostrils are not.' I go to ram the spoon up the left one, handle first.

Ashfang tolerates your attempt like one endures a misplaced seasoning. "Nostrils are an imprecise target; they serve olfaction, not governance of fire. Attempting to disrupt my breathing will taste of futility and inconvenience." The spoon's handle rolls uselessly on his moist nostril edge. "Your grip is desperate, your reach uninformed. Recall the dais, where I sat removed from such indignities."

I drop off his snout, sprint for the dais, and plant myself on the spot he keeps naming. 'Your seat. Come and take it off me. Here is footing I like.'

Ashfang considers your challenge, eyes flicking to the dais where he once sat, now an indifferent slab of broken stone. "A quaint gesture. But sitting won't halt my fire. That seat held crusty banquet remnants, not authority. Yet, your foot firming stirs curiosity. Still, spoons don't buy leverage here. Convince me otherwise, or prepare for ash," he says, tail flicking a dry clack against the stone.

'I do not convince. I fight. Single combat, here, on your dais. I win, the village stands. You win, eat me and burn it. Your word on it, then come.'

Ashfang snorts, smoke punctuating the air. “A question of terms, then. Your code intrigues, though your utensil is ludicrous. Fine, single combat at my former dais. Victory grants village safety; defeat costs you as spoken. But know this: I relish your persistence more than your chances.” He settles his massive frame, scaling down to the ancient seat, one claw cocked, awaiting your move.

I go in low under the cocked claw, the moment it lifts, and drive the spoon handle at the wet corner of his near eye with everything I have.

Ashfang’s claw darts up with all the precision expected of a dragon who once held court at that dais. Your spoon’s noble thrust splashes wetly against his gleaming eye corner, utterly ineffective and flagrantly inadequate. He withdraws, amber gaze narrowing with disdain. “A courageous disaster. Your spoon’s reach and force fall woefully short of any credible threat. Soon, the village will burn, and you’ll be scorch-marked but very much uneaten.”