Fennel Grange: The Legend of Mister Standing-Still

Test

The player says nothing. Ashfang waits a full count of five, which for him is generosity. “I was told the village was sending someone. I assumed the someone would have a mouth on it.” He tilts his head to the other side. “You've brought a spoon to a fire. That's either the bravest thing I've seen this century or the sort of decision that gets made at the last meeting before everyone goes home.” He settles lower against the rubble, unhurried. “In fairness, I have an appointment tomorrow about my left foreclaw, so I'm in a mood to be reasonable for roughly the next hour. Say something. Statistics preferred.”

Second

You say nothing. Ashfang's tail settles against the rubble, and he addresses the space where your answer should have been. “Silence again, Mister Standing-Still. I've had livelier furniture.” He rearranges a fallen chair-back with one claw. “Here's what I'll give you: the count. Forty summers since the roof came down, one feast owed for each. Forty. Not 'many.' Not 'a long while.' Forty. The village stopped climbing because it got expensive, and I stopped getting fed, so dusk is the arithmetic settling.” He lowers his head nearer the flagstones. “You may speak in figures or you may leave. Your spoon is neither.”

This

“Two turns, no words. I've been to livelier memorials.” He counts on a claw, slowly, watching you watch him do it. “If I could eat a spoon I'd have eaten it at noon.” He lets the quiet sit. Then, because he cannot help himself: “If you are actually proposing something with that thing, be specific. What, exactly, would a human do first with one spoon and forty missed dinners? I'll hear it. The hour is not free, though.”

Another

Ashfang counts them off on three separate claws, in order, slowly, as though reading a menu to a child. “Item one: standing. Item two: standing. Item three: standing. Four, standing. Not one word, not one offer, not one number.” He taps a talon against the flagstones. “Most people who come up here at least try to sell me a goat. You have achieved the posture of a hat stand and the vocabulary of a fence post. That is your tally.” He settles his weight. “Dusk is not negotiable, Mister Standing-Still. Say a figure or go home and be counted among the ashes.”

You’re awesome.

“Mister Standing-Still, your best line yet, and it was about me.” Ashfang settles onto the rubble with the air of a creature filing something away. “Compliments. Flattery is a currency I don't accept, mostly because I can't eat it and can't spend it on a foreclaw appointment. Ask the goats. They bleated nicely and I still ate them.” He turns his head so that one eye has you square. “You've had five turns and produced four silences and one sentence, and the spoon is still in your hand like a cutlery exhibit. So let's make a figure of it. Dusk is one hour out. When it lands, either the valley has settled forty missed dinners or it settles them in fire. Which do you intend to be true — and don't say 'awesome.'”

Love the scales

“Scales now. Beautiful. You've upgraded from hat stand to art critic.” Ashfang sets his jaw on a chunk of fallen cornice. “Let's have the tally, Mister Standing-Still, and I'll read it out plain: silence, silence, silence, silence, one compliment. Five turns, zero proposals, one spoon, unchanged, still in your hand. The goats beat you. The goats at least arrived as a plan.” “Dusk is short. If your pitch is my hide, I'll save us both the walk. Otherwise give me the figure: how does the valley settle forty dinners by sundown?”

Wuzzzzzzzzup

Ashfang lets the silence stretch, then sighs. “Wuzzzzzzzzup. That’s your closing argument. The village sent a spoon and a catchphrase. I’ll remember this at the next feast—oh, wait.” He rises, tail sweeping the rubble. “Dusk is here, and the tally is settled. You may keep your spoon. The village will have to rebuild with what’s left.” He turns, flame curling from his jaws, and the night is lit by the only answer you gave: nothing at all.