Ouroboros Spine he has hands like the apocalypse

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The stranger’s pelage is of cenma; of earth, he notes as she draws a little bit closer to him and his verdant gaze sweeps over her. The druid observes to simply observe, with holding judgements. The empyrean has learned that appearances mean little and can be as deceptive as the sinking mud. It looks solid enough but given enough pressure and weight it becomes a bottomless pit that deigns to swallow beasts whole. He moves towards her as she gives a chuff in return. He cannot be certain she wishes to converse with him but as it stands backtracking towards her is his only way out of the mud pit that has become the Spine. He wishes he could see it before it is changed, to see what it’s ruins offer in echoes of sorrow. That it was once glorious; and like all beautiful things it has fallen to ruin. “Hello,” The druid offers her as he comes closer still, hesitating when there is a respectful distance between them. He pauses long enough to see if she is interested in conversation not wishing to be seen as uncivilized.

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