Back of an alley, decent dumpster, at least three ways to escape. Yeah. Sure one of 'em a door to a store, but it's still a door. If needed she'll haul-ass and find a Trod.

Nodding to herself she ambles to the line between the alley - her alley, and the street. She crouches down, and with a grunt, she slices her thumb, shallowly, sure. Easier to heal and still gives her the blood she needs, before crushing up a nicked stub end of a kid's sidewalk chalk and mixing them both together.

Smooshing an oil black finger into the mess of blood and chalk on her palm, she scoops up what she can and starts writing.

Sure, Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn didn't match her enforced aesthetic the mien. the horror and the wound. the terror of exposed scars and the tattering of her soul. Despite her taking the city as her Name, but it works for the Clause....and might not get cleaned off if people laugh at the reference, between now and when she wakes up.

She feels the Clause Catch, her awareness spreads. Her matted fur lays flatter against her skin, the tight ball of anxiety loosens, as she knows deep and Wyrd bright that there's no one's here that'll threaten her sleep. Days and nights of restlessness and insomnia making sure everyone (and she meant it, everyone, knew this place was hers. Her home, her alley. Her territory. "Fuck off you little shithead this dumpster's mine! Get your food somewhere else!!"

Feeling the weight of exhaustion settle on her shoulders, now that she knows she's safe. Heavy is her boots as they crunch the gravel, her tail(s) droops behind her as she wedges herself in near the dumpster, not inside it, she didn't want to die, she feels themit curl around her, protection and a pillow all in one, as she finally, finally drifts off to sleep.