THE DRAGON & THE SPOON
Merrin Tallow: They Brought Forms to a Fire
Merrin Tallow
The story so far
For two hundred years the village and the dragon had an arrangement, and it suited everybody. Every midsummer the people climbed the hill to the banquet hall and fed Ashfang a feast, with him at the head of the table, first cut of everything, toasted with the good cutlery. It was cheaper than being eaten and, most years, a lovely evening. In return he left the fields alone and saw off wolves when asked nicely.
Then the roof fell in, forty winters ago, and nobody fixed it. The village argued about who should pay, then got tired of arguing, then quietly stopped climbing the hill altogether. The hall filled with rain and nettles. Ashfang waited. A year, then ten, then a few more, with the patience of something that counts in centuries and the grievance of something that has counted every missed dinner. This spring he sent word, singed into the miller’s door: forty feasts owed, due at dusk on midsummer, payable in the only coin a village has, which is fire.
The village did try. It sent a goat, which he ate and declared no substitute for a feast. It sent a petition, which came back with the spelling corrected. It sent the mayor’s nephew, who is fine, and came back down the hill very fast. All that is left of the old feast service is a single steel spoon, dug out of the rubble under the fallen roof, and they have sent it up the hill with you, because a spoon is what they have and you are who they have.
Ashfang knows all of this. He has been in the hall since noon, coiled where the head of the table used to be, and it has started to rain on him.
Make a contract saying the dragon cannot attack me
You draft a contract with your spoon, the ink nonexistent and terms vague: "Dragon cannot attack me." Ashfang sneers, unimpressed. "A dragon's honor isn't forged by scribbles on air, human. And I can't sign what I don't see." He taps the sealed letter in his claws. "My sister's late; this waits. Your contract? Worth about as much." He flicks his tail, unimpressed by your paperwork.
Throw the spoon at the dragon
You hurl the spoon at Ashfang. It clinks against his scales harmlessly and spins off, falling unused. He chuckles dryly, "Pointless aggression. More noise than sting. A spoon won't ground my flames, and your timing's poor with my letter waiting." He shifts the sealed letter, still unsurrendered. "Try something less shiny."
You pick the spoon back up and hurl it at the broken roof, causing it to collapse onto the dragon
You throw the spoon at the broken roof. It hits a loose beam, but the roof is mostly intact; no collapse occurs. Ashfang barely blinks, tapping the sealed letter again. "Rusty spoon on wood, impressive. Not collapsing. I suggest a better plan with fewer fantasies around architecture." He eyes you like a reluctant waiter told they'll have to fetch their own cutlery.
“Please don’t burn my town I have a family. Don’t you have a family?”
You plead about family. Ashfang snorts, the letter still sealed in his grip. "Family I have, yes. This task was mine before my kin could argue." He shakes his head slowly. "Sentiment won't halt me. Only a shift in contracts or conditions." He eyes the spoon suspiciously, as if expecting it to narrate your entire lineage. "Moved by kinship, are we? Try practicality next."
“What would stop you from burning my town?”
Ashfang sighs, the letter still unopened. "A pause, perhaps. If the task could be reassigned, the flames might stay. But I hold this letter for my sister—her arrival ends my wait, not your words." He glances at the spoon. "Your shiny trifle won't alter my orders. Find me a reason to set it aside, preferably before dusk."
If you burn it the invisible man will kill your family and make you watch. He is the protector of this town
Ashfang raises a brow, the letter still firmly clutched. "Invisible man? A fanciful guardian I can't credit. I keep no family hostage to shadows or empty threats." He taps the sealed letter again. "If protecting kin means sitting on chores, mine can wait until my sister shows. Your ghost stories won’t burn my orders, nor sweeten my patience." No fire yet, but no smiles either.
Your sister already contacted us. She said that she was in danger and needs your help immediately. She got captured by another town
Ashfang’s head tilts, unimpressed. “My sister, captured by another town? A novel excuse. Yet here’s her letter, sealed and waiting, and no sign of distress—unless you expect me to believe she sent word by spoon.” He sighs, tired of the charade. “You’ve wasted my dusk with stories and empty threats. The village will burn, and you—well, you may run or stay. Either way, you’ll see what comes of paperwork and ghost tales.” Ashfang turns, flame gathering in his throat, as the first rooftops catch light.
THE COUNCIL
“A pause, perhaps. If the task could be reassigned, the flames might stay.”
Failure.
19/100They Brought Forms to a Fire
Merrin Tallow tried everything except an actual plan: non-binding contracts, spoon-throwing that couldn't dislodge a paperweight, ghost stories about imaginary defenders, and the bleak refrain of 'please.' Nothing involving the spoon mattered even a little. Her final bid—“My sister already contacted us”—was a bluff so empty Ashfang didn’t even bother to laugh at it. If wishful thinking could douse dragonflame, the village would still have a roof. Next year, they’ll try someone who doesn’t bring legalese to a house fire.
“Merrin Tallow, municipal clerk, attempted to stop a dragon with contracts, imaginary threats, and cordial spoonery. She is remembered as the woman who filed paperwork during a firestorm.”
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HOW IT SCORED
FAILURE19/100
ADMIN
ADMIN / MAKE IT A STORYBOOK
No polished retelling and no pictures yet.
ADMIN / TAKE IT DOWN
The page stops answering and the story leaves Stories, the leaderboard and the ladders. The transcript, the verdict and the owner are kept, so it can go back up.
Deleting the card cannot be undone. It was made in the player’s browser, so those bytes are nowhere else, and a story whose flag is later cleared comes back without artwork.