Silver Moraine lover lay me down inside the garden soil

There was fun to be had in the moraine, but not enough to satisfy Indie. While many of her cohorts nurtured an appreciation for solitude [and none more than the nereids themselves], the hoyden was more of a social creature, a troubadour at heart — and an entertainer only prospered when the audiences were thick and the applause rolled deep. Seclusion meant consistency and Indie thrived in the contrary, appreciating the fluidity of navigating conversations and relationships like a finely honed craft. And though the woman wished she could be wildly independent like so many other wolves she had met [self assurance without the validation of others did sound nice], it was a part of her that was unchanging so Indie made quick work of collecting dazzling cronies to fill in for her own shortcomings. 

Afterall, labored imperfections bore no amelioration and she would spend no time on such fruitless efforts.

So Indie was not necessarily [i]happy to find herself here, but this too was an unchangeable fact and the chanteuse tried to make the best of it. She sang and she danced — and for fleeting moments, she felt the thrill of flirting with the dangerous unknown, but it was quickly surrenerded to a thirst for control. Then she continued on and, to Indie’s delight, was intercepted by a man. He said nothing but the shewolf was aware of him immediately and drew her chin to rest on obsidian shoulder and simply looked at him. Powerful lungs drew breath but the stranger was downwind but she could scry no scent from the dry inland air. Returning his advances, Indie stepped a few paces forward and called out over the expanse between them. ”Ahoy!” the chanteuse chimed, letting the word sit on her lips for a moment and feeling the residual tingle.