Ouroboros Spine things become possible if we want them bad enough

Natjuk is a brute of mountains. He was birthed and reared upon the slopes of one. At a young age, he had to learn how to navigate unforgiving terrain. There is no room for error up here. One misstep and death is sure to follow. If not death then some godawful impediment.

Mountains are not the wisest place to raise a family. One must quickly find his or her legs to persevere but he will never settle unless there is some rock formation close by; powerless to renounce attachment to these landmarks.

She draws closer. They are alike, then, insofar that they are immigrants to Teekon.

He stares at the black blaze on her muzzle, casually moving up to meet her eyes. She is surprisingly small. Natjuk wonders where her strengths lie. Whereas he is built for power, she is built for speed and endurance. Envisioning her routing a particularly fast ungulate, such as a doe or pronghorn, fills him with determination. Best put a leash on that for now.

I am Natjuk, comes his reply. His name is short, ending in a harsh K sound. Beautiful in its own way and straight to the point. Fitting.

This, he motions to the wrecked valley below, is Ouroboros Spine. That is what the locals call it. She had not asked. He stops there, lost. Conversation has never been his forte. He thinks it shows, much to his upset. Even so, he keeps a neutral façade.

The girl is amiable, sensing his disquiet. They converse for a while before parting ways. Natjuk beckons Savannah to stay with him but it looks like her attention lies elsewhere. They part ways, Natjuk heading south and the girl heading northeast.