Cricket Creek Bog war tongues flickered about that dirty old church mouth

no problem. sorry, i didn't see this had a reply to it :) thanks for joining!

like himself, queenie, with her uniquely mottled coat, was an undeniable sore thumb in the sunflecked everglades. he didn't recall their erstwhile encounter as having a surplus of meaningful context, and did not sense her with any notability. the weight of nothing around being Indra confounded his faculties--she was the only thing he would ever smell again, aside from his own rot.
it took her form materializing to draw his eye from its tired canvass. he observed her mincing steps; the unsure flit of her gaze, and reflected from a distance on the vague familiarity that connected their lives. despite biological imperative, absalom was seldom a wolf to join at the seams of social quilts, so it took him only a few beats to remember the female's relevance in his memory--it had been an encounter that was, at best, of little consequence. he pulled up the mental tab reminding him of her accusation--that he was self-pitying, but that was the only indelible annotation of their interaction he could recollect.
nothing but his legs moved as he strode nearer towards her; like a statue under a spell of labored animation. his eyes considered her briefly, but he did not surmirse he would greatly benefit from engaging her in conversation for a second time.