Marge Tully: The Spoon That Broke the Dragon’s Patience

I tell him he is a big lizard and I am not scared of him.

You call Ashfang a big lizard and claim no fear. He snorts, precisely. "Incorrect taxonomy; I am a dragon, not a mere lizard. Fear is sensible, yet apparently overestimated in you." He flicks a claw at the spoon in your hand. "So, you bring a spoon. A curious tool for diplomacy, if ineffective against my scales. This is a poor start."

I call him a coward who hides behind fire and demand he leave.

You brand Ashfang a coward hiding behind fire and demand he leave. He snorts, eyes narrowing. "Another imprecise accusation. Fires are tools of consequence, not cowardice. Your spoon offers neither leverage nor threat. Had the previous village settled with smoke and mirrors, I’d be fed but not amused. I await something more competent than insults." He flicks a claw impatiently. "Try again."

I say my nan was scarier than him and she is dead.

You say your nan was scarier than Ashfang and she is dead. Ashfang’s reply is a precise sigh. “Personal anecdotes are not a rescue plan, though your narrative paints a vivid non-threat. Your repeated use of insult suggests either bravado or desperation, neither advances your cause.” He tilts his head toward the spoon. “I expected a taste of respect or a reasonably flavored bargain, not a sequel of ineffectiveness.”

I wave the spoon in his face and tell him to jog on.

You wave the spoon and bark him off. Ashfang blinks slowly, then laughs, a sound like stones grinding. "Your strategic prowess is as robust as a wet napkin. Insults, threats, ancestral ghosts—none amend the fundamental flaw: your spoon remains ineffective against my vaulted scales. At least you’ve stopped embarrassing yourself with spitting barbs." He leans closer. "Your village’s gracious goblet is empty, and so is your argument."

I tell him the whole village thinks he is rubbish at being a dragon.

You declare that the whole village thinks Ashfang is rubbish at being a dragon. He snorts derisively, quoting your earlier insult about his cowardice and fire. "You parade your insults like a punchline with a missing joke. Your spoon diplomacy, your ancestral ghost stories—all as effective as a wet napkin, as you embarrassingly admitted. Your village’s opinion, while unanimously amusing, counts for less than my patience."

I announce I have beaten bigger dragons than him. I have not.

You claim to have bested bigger dragons, an assertion untested and unconvincing. Ashfang snorts, amused by your audacity yet unmoved. "Your dossier here reads 'failed whistles and waving spoon,' not exactly the CV of a dragon conqueror. The rain interrupts nothing; your lack of leverage persists. Unless you plan to feed me something more substantial than past boasts, I'm unperturbed." He shifts, clearly unafraid.

I bonk him on the nose with the spoon and shout I win.

You leap forward and bonk Ashfang’s nose with the spoon, declaring victory. The steel makes a faint, apologetic ping. Ashfang blinks once, then sighs. “A bold tactic, if one’s goal is to be remembered as an hors d’oeuvre.” He stretches, uncoiling. “I’ll give your village a head start. You may wish to run.” He turns toward the valley, flame already gathering in his throat.