Muriel

Muriel was an odd duck. Actually less of a duck and more of a dragon. Bogsneaks were notorious loners who lurked alone in swamps with disagreeable dispositions. As the odd dragon out, Muriel enjoyed the company of others. She loved a good exchange of news from strangers or a drawn out yarn everyone else groaned about. They had heard it one hundred and two times, but it was new to her. If she had ears like a Pearlcatcher they’d be flitting ten ways in five minutes trying to catch all the latest gossip.

When she wandered into the enormous Clan which called itself Wolf Home, she plopped her scaly rump down in the middle of it. They were very welcoming and were renovating heavily. Enormous lairs were being expanded and their wealth was almost as overwhelming as the amount of familiars which ran, flew, scurried, shed, screeched, perched and galloped.

Muriel once found herself admiring a Wildclaw’s handsome, glittering doorstop. Then the thing spoke quite politely to her and it asked her to take her paw off its tail. She’d never encountered a Golden Idol before. Fascinating! The stories it had to tell, too. She supposed being a doorstop wasn’t a particularly interesting profession, giving it a great deal of time to amuse itself.

The Clan didn’t seem to mind that she was unusual, and she made herself at home in a large mud bath. It was soothing to her scales and she sank comfortably all the way down to her chin.

A number of Pearlcatchers were in attendance, all of them happily gossiping.

“Frankly, I’m tired of it.” Calypso lazily fanned her face with the tip of a wing. Like her bewhiskered counterparts, she held her pearl high above the sludgy brown surface in a loop of tail.

Qinglong yawned, feigning boredom. Muriel could tell by his glinting eye that he was really fascinated by the conversation. “Bearclaw is practically a barbarian. I can hardly believe he’s part of our esteemed society. He’s always tramping around with that mate of his. You all know the one?”

Multiple maned heads nodded eagerly. They knew exactly who. Muriel started to ask, but Quinlong continued with the relish of one holding a succulent bit of food. “They’re always bringing something back to the Clan which has been clubbed over the head or mangled. Of course it gets eaten, but stars and shoals, how can anyone really appreciate it?”

“Mine was still moving,” another Pearlcatcher huffed.

“I’m not sure which is worse,” Quinlong drawled, “mutilated beyond recognition or still trying to run away.”

“Trying to run away,” chorused the knot of gossips blandly.

“I suppose you’re right. You’d think with this mob living around here that someone could do something with those messy parcels Joyleaf and Bearclaw deposit into the food hoards.”

“You mean?” Muriel interrupted, raising her thick neck up and startling several idle Pearlcatchers who hadn’t noticed her. “You don’t have a proper chef?”

“Who are you?” Quinlong fixed her with a beady eye.

“I’m a chef." They weren't the only ones who could look pleased with themselves. "If you show me to your hoard and stoke up some cook fires I can do things with a stew of shockshank, raspberry and sweetgrass which you wouldn’t believe!” Excited, she used her powerful forelegs to heave herself clear of the mud. “Let me have a good wash and I’ll prove it.”

“Well….” Calypso and Quinlong seemed to be in dubious, silent communication on the matter. A few wings fanned more quickly and all eyes shifted back and forth toward Muriel. “Well,” she repeated slowly, “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt?”

A reluctant mutter of agreement rippled through the other Pearlcatchers and Quinlong pulled himself ashore. “I’ll show you the way.”