Given she hasn't got a tail (or is all tail, depending on how one chose to conceptualize a wormipede's anatomy), let alone a crooky one, it's certainly a mystery of a name.

Not one Myr would ordinarily have trouble explaining, at least, under comfortable and congenial circumstances.

These circumstances are neither. It pricks at the stag's instincts that Myr cannot find cover he likes to sit beneath, even when he gives up his own stubborn pride and mutters a word to the wormipede to request her help. She leaves off measuring the wall around the fountain with her antennae to lead him to a bench beneath the trellises, nudging at his legs with her flanks to keep him on the right path. He locates the bench, takes his staff off his back, and settles down with it across his lap.

Slim protection, but not none. The wormipede curls up by his hooves after a moment of surveying their surroundings, keeping her own vigil as her Faun simply waits in ears-cocked silence for Elidibus to arrive.

(Or not arrive, as the case may be. There may be danger Myr can't see that would warrant aborting their appointment.

Which, he confesses in himself, would not be a terrible thing.)