Simple acceptance coursed along a serpentine frame. No thought of particular approval, or indeed, disapproval, bit and lingered upon an ancient salted mind. There howled no clarion call for aesthetic approval, cried no soothsayer for the lost art of the perfected form, deep beneath the waves and, were truth to find him, Jörmungandr understood such desirous thoughts not. To wish for a better lot in life was no strange thing amongst humans, to mislike the hand Fate had dealt and wish for more almost the human condition, yet the serpent saw no need to aspire for the perfect form. Each body served it’s owner well, as his own fabrication did himself; it did not lose him in the twists and turns of changing Midgard, altering and reforming countless lands and waves as though they were a child’s plaything ( albeit an absently pondering mind did naught to impede the lack of attention paid to his surroundings ), and it served the purpose it had been made for. What more was there to want?