Duckpea never learnt to whisper.
He was born in the dark, in the crook of a quiet drawer, and came out honking. Not loudly. Not rudely. Just… clearly.
He doesn’t walk so much as toddle – a little forward, a little sideways, with a sound like a tiny wooden tap on the floor.
He’s shorter than most in Morrowbay, but no one tells stories quite like him. His beak points wherever the tale is thickest. “This way!” he chirps. “No, that way! Yes – here!”
When Duckpea laughs, he glows from the tip of his beak. That’s how you know it’s real.