Sawtooth Spire there is no hourglass, only sand

The brute did not speak much further about the apex of the world, and thus Indie could not be entirely sure about his feelings of this place, but Indie was okay with this.  Perhaps she was not one to appreciate the axiomatic qualities of locations and possessions,  much preferring things that are not self-evident but carefully controlled, manipulated and made to serve a purpose.  At times, the mummer wondered if this moral code would ever allot her a partner, a mate. Inside, Indie knew this was untrue [evinced from her ardency with the lothario, Donovan]; but she and the raconteur were much too similar to ever produce anything like fidelity and routine. But love was never her goal, no.
Power was.
 
So, she continued with an air of politesse. ”Indeed, it is not.”  She did not mention that spire seemed to offer the offensive hare more than enough shelter; and besides this her, the spire held no pecuniary value – so her time could not be spent pondering or adulating [nonetheless defending, as this man was doing]such matters. She imagined he would not care for such minutia anyways – he was a succinct man, and as such, the woman would subtly adopt his mannerisms and in that way, the character of Indie [as far as this scene went] would demystify herself. But first, he needed a name.

Indie smiled bewitchingly and dipped her muzzle, head, neck and chest in greeting; it was as pro forma as the con woman dare stray, but the gesture had that extra flair that drew Indie to it. “I am Indie,” the chanteuse chimed at the arc of her bow, allowed her tail to sway once, twice, and then she gathered herself.