(no subject)

[katyafeline]

She makes her way home from the bar through the Gloom, slipping through the shadows of the trees in the lane and the spaces between streetlights. She doesn't feel like going through the trouble of undoing her locks on the door one level into the Gloom, so she dips a bit further, letting the top level of light and humanity slip a little further away to where the door isn't locked, and she can come inside without trouble.

There are icy footprints leading from the front door to the kitchen, slowly melting in the heat of the building.

Kind of like how her hair is doing the same as she studies the pantry in bare feet and a dark cloud of unbound hair.