Dudley Fenn: Five Stars But No Fireworks Tonight

Oh, very good. The animatronics are excellent. Sorry, is this the way out? I've done the banquet hall bit, and the rain effect is a touch much.

Ashfang’s coin flips thoroughly under his claw before he scoffs, unimpressed. “This is no show for your exit. Nor a bath, despite the dripping.” He eyes your spoon, weighs the silence, then adds plainly, “Your kind has been around. Perhaps you took my silver gravy boat, too?” It’s clear: he is not dinner theatre, the spoon is not a key, and the missing gravy boat is the day’s dark trivia.

A gravy boat! So that's the puzzle. Find the boat, the gate opens, yes? Very immersive. I didn't take it, but the gift shop will have one. Which way?

Ashfang flips his coin again, this time with a sharper tap that echoes. “A silver gravy boat is missing, yes, but it’s not a puzzle box or gate key. Finding one in a gift shop is a quaint plan, but irrelevant here.” He peers past you, dismissive. “Directions to something that isn’t here won’t save the village. Try a plan that holds under scrutiny.”

Right, the storyline. I'll play along. That coin you keep flipping, is that the mechanic? Heads you burn it, tails you don't? Go on, flip it for real.

Ashfang flips his coin again, slow and deliberate this time. “No, my dear tourist, it is not the fate of the village decided by chance. But it is what weighs my choices.” He flicks the coin aside, gaze unwavering. “Try a move that bends that. A spoon is poor leverage against claws and flame, but perhaps minds are less brittle.”

You dropped your coin. I pick it up, scrape the mud off with the spoon and hand it back. Some advice: the village-burning bit? Cut it. Guests hate it.

Ashfang snorts, the mud-caked coin now blinking dully in his claw. “Your spoon cleans well enough for a tourist, but beware polishing my patience. If my choices weighed so lightly, the village would already smoke. Your gamble is a clumsy jest.” He flicks the coin away, already distracted by the looming dusk. “Speak plainly or be cooked.”

Plainly? My hotel is in that village. Luggage, passport, return ticket. Burn it and I'm stuck in your attraction forever. Neither of us wants that.

Ashfang flicks the coin between thick claws, corners of his jaws twitching at your word choice. “Human trappings mean little to me. Yet I admit, involving your mundane losses is a new turn.” He leans close, scales casting dull reflections on your spoon. “Prove you hold actual leverage beyond threats or whiny tours.” His voice grudging, “Convince me to wait.”

Leverage? I write reviews. One star: dragon burned my hotel. Five stars: dragon, very reasonable, waited till morning. Which goes on the sign outside?

Ashfang snorts, the notion of Yelp wielding more power than claws unmistakable in his glare. "A star for patience or for pyromania?" He chuckles, dry. "Reviews won’t cool my flames, but they might make me consider delays. Still, words lack weight. Come with a plan that's slower to soggy, not just slick talk." He flicks the coin again. "Last chance before dusk."

A plan, then. I scratch it into the wall with the spoon: FIVE STARS. ASHFANG WAITED TILL MORNING. Signed, D. Fenn. It's written now; live up to it.

Ashfang eyes the crudely scratched proclamation with a resigned twitch. “A binding contract by spoon scratch? Brash and pointless, but oddly compelling. I shall reconsider my evening’s entertainment, at least until dawn’s light.” He retrieves the muddied coin, weighing time against impulse anew. “Delay it is. For now.”