Guestman Crole: The Guest Who Watched the Village Burn

testing

Ashfang regards the spoon the way a man regards a bill he has already paid. "Forty feasts," he says, "and they send the dessert implement. Someone in that village is bad at arithmetic, or very good at insult." He shifts his weight off a fallen beam. "I should mention, since nobody's asked: a neighbouring village bought me off once with a wagon of salt fish and a promise of yearly tribute. I still think about it. That was three hundred years ago and I still think about it. So whatever you're about to offer, understand I already know how the discount tastes."

another try

Ashfang turns the spoon over with one claw, unhurried, like a man appraising a fork at a dinner he has already decided to leave. "Steel. Village at the bottom of a hill full of mud. You climbed all this way carrying something that cannot even offend me properly." He sets it down on the flagstone, deliberately, and does not look at it again. "So. You have my attention, which is more than the nephew managed. Say the thing you came to say. If it is a poem, I will eat you first and the village second, and I will take my time over the order."

and another

Ashfang waits. A minute. Two. The spoon sits where he left it, and you sit where you were, and the two of you do nothing with what is now a fairly expensive silence. "Right," he says. "The goat at least bleated. The petition at least had spelling in it. You people are getting worse at this and I say that as someone who has watched you decline for two centuries." He settles his chin on the flagstones. "I've got until dusk and no plans. Ask me something. Anything. You look like a man who has never once been curious in his life, and I'd like to watch you try it."

still trying

Ashfang lets the silence run another minute, out of what looks like scientific interest. "Still nothing. You've sat there through two of my best lines and a goat's worth of atmosphere. I'm going to start calling you the Guest. Not because you're welcome — because you turned up, took a seat, and have yet to say grace." He nudges the spoon an inch closer to you with one claw. "Here's a thought. You're the first one they've sent who didn't come with a story prepared. The mayor had a speech. The nephew had a leg-up on his own trousers. You have a utensil and a long face. So I'll do you a kindness: ask me what I actually want from this hill. You might be surprised how small it is. You won't ask, of course. Guests don't."

3 moves left - I've got this

Ashfang's head tips over at an angle, which is the dragon equivalent of a man deciding whether you have brought him a joke or a threat. "Three moves left," he repeats, in the voice of someone cataloguing an odd new species. "You're counting my dinner down like it's a parsnip auction. Four turns of sitting in a puddle with a spoon, and now arithmetic." He draws the spoon back under one claw and rests the tip of it against the flagstone. "Fine. I'll bite. You want terms, so give me one I can weigh: what exactly do you think a village is worth to me, and what are you putting up against it? Not the spoon. Something real, and specific, and yours to give."

Almost there...help me out here

"'Help me out here,'" Ashfang says. "Guest, you have been asking me for assistance since the goat. There's a whole village downhill that owes me four decades of dinner and they sent me a man whose entire strategy is sighing in my direction." He weighs the spoon on one claw. "But you did ask for something specific, which is one more thing than you've managed all afternoon. So: a village is worth roughly one good evening a year to me, and you've offered me a parsnip auction. What's actually yours to give? And no, the fog of encouragement you've been exhaling since noon doesn't count."

let's go save a village!

Ashfang gives you a look usually reserved for a ledger with a missing page. "Let's go save a village," you say, as if the last six turns were a warm-up. He sighs, tucks the spoon behind a claw, and stretches. "Guest, you have offered arithmetic, silence, and a spoon. I am going to burn the village now. You can watch, or you can run. Either way, you have my thanks for the parsnip auction." He leaves you with the spoon and a view of the flames. The village is gone before you think to count the pieces.