Difference between revisions of "Late Night Smoke"
(Replaced content with "{{ Log | cast = Evelyn_Clarke, Ink | summary = Evelyn steps outside late at night for some fresh air, but finds something else instead. | gamedate = 2020-07-15 | g...") |
|||
| Line 7: | Line 7: | ||
| location = FB05 | | location = FB05 | ||
| categories = | | categories = | ||
| − | | log = | + | | log = It's late. Tuesday night. Well, really, it's Wednesday morning. But only just. The witching hour, if that's particularly useful information. For Evelyn Clarke, the witching hour may as well be any other hour of the day. Painfully mortal, painfully normal, aside from being strikingly, almost otherworldly beautiful. Not a kiss of magic on her or in her, however. Just youth, exercise, and winning the genetic lottery. But she's up late. Later than usual, judging by the way she blinks sleepily around, slipping through one of the heavy metal side-doors on her wing of the hotel. It clicks behind her as its locking mechanism engages, and she tips her head up to the sky. |
| + | A big black pullover hoody covers her torso. It's baggy, much to big for her. Probably a guy's that she stole. It's long enough that it swallows up her waist, hips, and upper thighs. Bare legs beneath. She's probably wearing shorts, but you can't see them. Little slippers on her feet with ankle-high socks, cream colored, bunched up at the ankles. The slippers have raccoons on the toes and are a charcoal gray. She's got her eyes shut and is rubbing her temples. Collecting her thoughts. Getting some fresh air, perhaps. | ||
| + | Though the smell of cigarettes is in the air. | ||
| + | |||
| + | |||
| + | |||
Revision as of 06:08, 15 July 2020
| Late Night Smoke | |
|---|---|
| Participants | 12:15AM Evelyn steps outside late at night for some fresh air, but finds something else instead. |
| Location
FB05 | |
| It's late. Tuesday night. Well, really, it's Wednesday morning. But only just. The witching hour, if that's particularly useful information. For Evelyn Clarke, the witching hour may as well be any other hour of the day. Painfully mortal, painfully normal, aside from being strikingly, almost otherworldly beautiful. Not a kiss of magic on her or in her, however. Just youth, exercise, and winning the genetic lottery. But she's up late. Later than usual, judging by the way she blinks sleepily around, slipping through one of the heavy metal side-doors on her wing of the hotel. It clicks behind her as its locking mechanism engages, and she tips her head up to the sky. A big black pullover hoody covers her torso. It's baggy, much to big for her. Probably a guy's that she stole. It's long enough that it swallows up her waist, hips, and upper thighs. Bare legs beneath. She's probably wearing shorts, but you can't see them. Little slippers on her feet with ankle-high socks, cream colored, bunched up at the ankles. The slippers have raccoons on the toes and are a charcoal gray. She's got her eyes shut and is rubbing her temples. Collecting her thoughts. Getting some fresh air, perhaps. Though the smell of cigarettes is in the air. | |
