White had decided, as her aching legs dragged along tunnel O, that being a tunnel runner was in fact, not for her. She'd stick to being a princess of light, or whatever Fisher had called her.

She wasn't sure if she could ever run like that again - her legs had been filled with lactic acid and cramped up about twelve seconds into the stampede. It wasn't as fun as she thought it would be, or as much as Derby said it would be.

With half-closed eyes the creature passed by Polaristown and made her way to her usual spot on the spire, heaving out a yawn as she lay down by the glowing blue rock with a heavy sigh of relief.

She coiled up to herself, licking and grooming her pristine, white feathers. Her legs and tail feathers were coated in dust - something Caravaggio would be enraged at. She craned her neck over and began carefully cleaning her legs.