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Outside the open window, there is a pigeon flying off with a note: De Carabas: Still well, if witness to the occasional mutiny and the trauma of former princesses. Though we're still attending summer classes, we've moved back to the dormitories (room smelled oddly of cow today), and only go out to the campgrounds for class now. Am off to Scotland for the weekend - Above, but not our Above. Perfectly safe except perhaps for the vampires.

...also, aliens blew up the school. I may have forgotten to mention that in my previous letter. Keep well, and send news if you have it. yrs, Door, House of Arch

Inside the open window, there is a girl sitting on the sill, enjoying the non-cow-scented breeze.
__
[OOC: Open for a few hours, at least, until I give in and crash!]

Door doesn't brood, despite the fact that lying on your bed with your chin on your hands staring at nothing might look like brooding. It's a waste of time, doesn't make things better and it certainly doesn't make you feel better when you're unhappy.

But what's been -- aside from a certain best-forgotten adventure in the library -- a ( great week ) fetched up on a sour note last night.

It bothers her, this idea of losing a sense you've had since you were tiny. She can imagine being dead more easily -- too easily -- than she can imagine being ... blinded, like that. Yet she keeps trying to wrap her mind around it, and that bothers her too, but there's got to be a reason for it.

So it's not brooding. It's productive. She just doesn't know what it's producing yet.

[Locked to