She trudged through the muck. It was a dense layer of wet silt and soil sitting atop a cobblestone road. On her shoulders, she felt the pull of her long cloak. It was soaked through and caked with sludge where it dragged on the ground, as were her boots. She felt pinned down by the weight of it. Each step forward was a struggle against all the filth of the world. 

And she wanted to give up. That was the worst part. 

The weight of exhaustion was tremendous. All she wanted was to slide down, onto her knees, and then perhaps find a place off to the side of the road where she might keep herself from being trampled underfoot. And she imagined that in that small space, under her grime-covered cloak, and pressed into the mess of wet earth -- that’s where she would find her rest. 

She saw herself become petrified, as she moved forward through the world as if she were in a dream. She saw soft tissue replaced by hard minerals. There, low down in the pits of despair, she would sleep -- but she would also harden. 

The thought filled her eyes with tears. Imagining herself as anything other than this hopeless thing -- this broken creature -- made her angry. They were not hopeful thoughts of restoration. Her imagination had become an escape, and just like in every aspect of her life, escape was a dangerous temptation. 

She had to think clearly.

She had to keep her wits about her. 

This was a new world after all. 

And so there was no pause. She did not subsume to the nearly irresistible desire to give up. She pressed on and continued her walk, each step measured, each movement -- from the sway of her arms to the clenching and unclenching of her fists, and the slight stir of her hips -- a choreographed performance. To look human, small, and not overly assuming. Never threatening. She had to fit the conceived notions of her physical characteristics and those were that she was petite in build, female by the shape of her hips and the swell of her breasts, and perhaps most notable, that she was alone. That latter piece of information could cause her grief if this was the wrong sort of place to be -- and for a woman, when was it ever not? 

There was a building up ahead. A tired-looking establishment that fit the environment with an ironic sort of perfection. It was gray in appearance and in mood, but from the windows, warm light shone out into the night. 

Golden light.

[i]Warmth[/i]. 

That’s where she headed, and upon reaching the threshold, she took a moment to glance back into the night. Most of her features were tucked safely away under the shadow of her hood. All that was visible was a softly rounded chin, the pale shape of elegant jawlines, and a small mouth, with heart-shaped lips, dusted in just a whisper of color. 

The sky was lit by a falling object. And where most would have rushed in a frenzy of curiosity and wonder, she narrowed her eyes deep in the shadows and frowned. 

“No thank you,” she mouthed the words to herself before pushing through the door and crossing the threshold inside.