Ouroboros Spine he has hands like the apocalypse

[table width=85%][tr][td]

The druid cannot claim to be overly fond of mud and while he does not consider himself vain he does like to keep his visage clean and kept. Still, though mud sticks and dries to the tendrils of his belly fur it is less of the bath he will have to take later than the concern of finding a spot of mud that will act like quicksand and will pull him into it’s suffocating depths. He has never came across one but he knows they exist, possibly something he has heard in idle passing he thinks for he does not remember ever talking about it with someone; for he knows he would have more (or at least) some answers to the phenomenon. He laps at the cool, refreshing water for a few more moments as his ears swivel to the side of his head, picking up the sound of approach. His head rises and he glimpses over a shoulder and after some time (for she is somewhat camouflaged) he can make out a canine shape in the distance. He is mildly astonished to see another out here and though there is yet plenty of distance between them a chuff of greet spills from betwixt the empyrean’s lips.

[/td][/tr][/table]