Sawtooth Spire there is no hourglass, only sand

Indie continued on from her botched pursuit, no worse for wear. It was a clement day; the sun felt soft and the air felt light at such elevations. Dextrous, ink feathered paws picked her way across the landscape — her eyes, vigilant and lively, carefully surveyed the landscape to descry any viable prey from the land of flat greens and stone. There was movement — a jackrabbit, same one from before. With a nocuous smile splitting her maw, fangs poised and ready for action, the amazonian lowered her frame close to the ground. 

She stepped closer. and closer. and closer.

and when the hare fluttered and shot away in a great feat of speed, it was not at Indie’s behest. No, Indie still lay amongst the scrub, in the midst of her ambush, utterly aggravated by the voice which scared away her second chance at victory. For a moment longer she stayed crouched down, unable to accept the fact; but then she tucked her teeth away, tore her eyes away from that one spot where the hare had sat, and rose to her full stature. With a sweeping turn of the shoulder, the vaudevillian looked upon a man, cloaked in silver. Her nacarat gaze flashed and danced with the energy of her hunt, not yet abated. 

The stranger had a somewhat dominate posture about him, looked to take himself quite seriously... and suddenly, her prey's hegira was promptly forgotten. “Who’s asking?” she inquired with a tilt of the head and a wisp of a grin, uncertain as to how he would react to her nonresponsiveness to his interrogation — but that was the whole reason behind it.