Every spring, without fail, Bolotomere the Lesser Swamp Dragon trudged into the bustling halls of Thistlepine’s Creature Clinic for his annual check-up.

He hated it.

The waiting room was always full of creatures noisier than him. A banshee with laryngitis whisper-screamed into a tissue. A troll with seasonal hoof rot tapped a magazine with one cracked claw. And next to Bolotomere, a cloud nymph was exhaling condensation into a bottle labelled “mucus analysis.”

Bolotomere hissed a sigh. "Why do I do this to myself?"

“Bolotomere? Room Three. You will be with Healer Elmira,” chirped a satyr nurse with a clipboard.

Room Three smelled like mint, sage, and something vaguely electrified. Elmira, a dryad with glowing green eyes and a stethoscope woven from silver vines, greeted him with a warm smile.

"Let’s start with your weight, and then vitals, shall we?" she said, motioning to the oversized scale.

Bolotomere lumbered on.

“I’ve gained a bit,” he muttered.

“Well, you are hoarding more gold now, yes?” Elmira raised a brow, leaf-hair rustling.

“I relocated my hoard to a riverbank", stated Bolotomere, then abruptly added "It’s damp. I retain moisture.”

Elmira nodded sagely. “Perfectly normal for your species in humid environments. Let’s check your fire glands.”

She handed him a rune-carved coal. He belched gently, just a puff. The coal ignited with a polite pop and smoldered pleasantly.

“Hm. Slightly under-temp. Been stressed lately?”

“There is a kraken nesting downstream. It screams at night.”

“Classic case of kraken-induced insomnia. I’ll give you a lavender-spell sachet, drink it at night just before bed”.

Next came the wing stretch (one strained ligament from chasing sheep), scale polish test (a small fungal bloom near his left flank, “use this ointment, it smells like mushrooms because it is mushrooms”), and a mood crystal swab.

The crystal turned a faint maroon.

“Melancholic?” Elmira asked gently.

Bolotomere looked away. “It’s just… everyone’s got eggs or apprentices now. I’m still living alone in a bog.”

“That’s not a diagnosis,” she said softly. “But it is something we can talk about.”

Bolotomere blinked. The tiny heart in his third chamber fluttered.

Elmira scribbled notes on a floating leaf.

“Well,” she said, “your flame’s low, your sleep’s poor, you’ve got minor scale-fungus and a dash of existential dread. But all in all? You’re in excellent health for a 289-year-old Swamp Dragon.”

Bolotomere sat taller.

“Keep flying, keep hoarding, maybe consider group therapy with the river spirits.”

He rumbled a small laugh. “Thanks, Doc.”

Outside, the kraken shrieked. Bolotomere didn’t even flinch. He had ointment, a lavender sachet, and—for the first time in decades—a follow-up appointment scheduled. Just in case.