The House of the Arch

Door would scream, if she could, but currently she's running through the tunnels of London Below, chased by something she can't put a name to because she has no breath to name it with. Pity there's no protective talisman against this darkness, nor anything coming to carry her away from it. Even the trains are still and silent as she races through the Underground. Every door she passes is locked, and the touch of her hands does nothing; her fingers slide through the keyholes, useless and insubstantial, but the doors themselves stay solid, keeping her out. So she runs, and it gets colder and harder to breathe, and she runs some more.

~

Funny thing... one of several.. about Door's family? They heal really fast. Especially after a good night's sleep.

That's pretty interesting for the shadows currently hiding out under her bed, because all they have to do is creep up, steal some warmth, then slide back down and wait for her to recover.

Of course they're hungry and not entirely patient. Plus? Shuddering under the bedclothes as you grow more and more translucent and less and less... there, is not exactly a good night's sleep.
_
[Just establishy; to the roomie, she just looks like she's feeling ill and hiding under the covers trying to get some sleep.]

There's a journal open on the table next to Door's bed. It would say, if you were peeking at it: ( this. )

But you wouldn't do that.

Door isn't peeking at it either, at the moment. She's hanging her head upside down off the end of her bed and reading her notes on Starling and Dragon, trying to finalize her ideas for the presentation in Miss Poppins' class on Monday. The room-door's open, because she likes hearing people wander past in the hallway, and the occasional snatches of holiday music from someone else's open door.

[OOC: Quite open! *goes back to adding the million tags that happen when you wait three weeks to do a linkdrop*]

Door is writing a letter. Of sorts.

( de Carabas: )
__

....yeah, right. Door snickers, trying to imagine him caring about that sort of thing, then writes on a small slip of paper.

( de Carabas: )

She shuts the piece of paper inside the compartment, slips a short, cryptic message about how to open it into the silver tube on the bird's leg, then opens the window. Opens the window, rather, reaching for the city-smell high above London instead of the salty air of Fandom Island. It's only a smaller door, after all; an opening is an opening, and it's certainly a big enough door for a pigeon to pass through.

//de Carabas// she says to it, cooing softly and stroking the top of its head from old habit, despite a mechanical bird presumably not caring about that sort of thing.

//Chimney!// it chirps in a tone half enthusiastic, half impatient, and flutters off into the air.

Door rather hopes that was a yes, as she closes the window again, then on a whim, opens it the regular way, letting in the fresh, cool island breeze.

[The door's closed, but the post's open!]