Ouroboros Spine he has hands like the apocalypse

Watching the boy at her distance is comfortable enough but he begins to track back through the mud. Uncertain of his intentions (the mud has already swallowed his prior footprints) until he gets close enough, West remains stiffened on the fallen tree. Her feet are still coated in a thin layer of mud, having been off the ground for some time, but she rubs them against the rough of the trunk in time for him to slow upon his approach. She looks down from where she stands, tail curled around her rump, and offers a nod of his head. “Where are you from?”