The Tangle when the rain comes down, all the worms come up to breathe

Indie didn’t like pain. Yes, Indie seemed to thrive off of emotional pains, such as grief or anger [after all, she did do her best work when driven by some sense of hot authenticity], but physical pain was no good. Indie’s hedonistic soul repelled the idea of pain and her rosy tongue swept over her paw many times, trying to assuage the sting of her paw. But then there was a scent; not one that was easily recognizable to the starlet, but familiar all the same. Indie lifted her black nose to the winds, her broad ribcage easily pulling forth breath, and drank in the briny, thick costal air — she followed her nose, which followed the scent, to look back over her flank. Indie turned her velvet cheek to move in that direction, enticed by the sudden presence of another [because would Indie’s endless curiosity never [i]not move her to action?] and with that simple movement, Indie’s auric gaze immediately fell upon the shadowy penumbra from the beach. 

There was a flame that burned within Indie that never simmered out, but burned hotly and consistently; and at that moment, the flame deep in her chest flared and it reflected in the flash of her molten eyes, as often happened when Indie was confronted with something extraordinary and fantastic. Indie took a step forward but was immediately reminded of her smarting, stubbed paw. Feeling her soreness, Indie moved no further and instead pulled her front left paw up, hovering her black silken foot inched from the ground. She shifted her weight entirely onto her three, strong legs and and paid no more mind to her small and suddenly inconsequential injury.

”It’s you,” she spoke softly,  in a delicate greeting. “the woman without a song.”