[It's easier to go down; easy to end up in the depths. She smells smoke before she sees light, follows it. Follows anything that offers clear direction here. She's a little wild-eyed, bloody, gore-tipped pickaxe slung over one shoulder. Her legs are scraped by stone but the polymer weave armor of her dress is unbreached; it's not her blood. She draws toward the fire with an uncertain slink like an ancient, early dog, not yet sure if it is still too wild to stand the flickering light.]
no subject