It's once again the time where the trees are shed bare, their skeletal frame shuddering in the wintry breeze as snow flutters down from the grey-washed heavens, lining all that it touches a sheet of sheer white.

Sofiel nearly slips with her first foot forward.

Hissing sharply, she bites down on a grimace, her heart lurching in a startling rhythm at her near fall. Bracing herself against the grubby wall of the alleyway, she tries again — albeit, slowly this time.

And succeeds, with little to no fuss.

Her steps are awfully clumsy. What with the keen weakness to her knees and the tremble of her ankles as they struggle to hold up her weight. There's a vague sensation as if the ground is going to come away and swallow her in at any given time. And Sofiel distinctly feels like she's learning how to walk all over again. Like she's fresh out of creation, limbs gangly and awkward.

It's all so very daunting, yet heartening at the same time.

Because for the first time, in a long time, she's standing on her own two feet; without hacking up mouthful of golden ichor or doubling over in pain. And she can't contain the peals of triumphant laughter, teeming past her lips.

Who would have thought that success would taste a lot like the bite of fresh snow?

She glances around, eyes alight with jubilation, hoping to share a sprinkle of her success with someone.

Anyone.

That is, until she realises that she's all alone in this dingy alleyway.

The joy in her is as short-lived as it comes, and it dies out in an instant at the sobering thought of the plight she's indubitably stuck in.

Her only comfort is her newfound mobility, which she puts to use almost immediately. She sets out through the streets aimlessly, her destination unknown and her future bleak.

She wonders if she should seek her brother out, wonders if he's still alive. And if he is — has he completely fallen in the time spent in the mortal realm.

Immediately, she shakes that unnerving thought out from her head and continues her solemn march through the empty streets.

"It's frigid as heck," as she has heard a passing mortal remark with a shuddery breath that rises into the atmosphere in a swirl of vapour.

Leaning their weight heavily against the shovel that is half-buried in the blanket of snow, the mortal holds out a gloved hand. They watch as the falling petals of soft ice flutter onto their palm.

"Could barely even bend my knees this morning," another mortal supplies with a grumble and a sigh.

Their interaction briefly stops Sofiel in her tracks and she can't help but listen in on their conversation. They're both wrapped up all the way to their eyes, and Sofiel can barely discern a gender from appearance alone. She wonders if such attire is even necessary when the first mortal laughs, rubbing and breathing into their gloved hands.

"Don't get me started on my joint aches."

Sofiel watches them for a little longer in mild curiosity, following only just a couple steps behind when they've decided to desert their duties at hand to traverse the streets. It's right about then does she realise that every other mortal is bundled up in ridiculously thick layers as well.

How peculiar.

As Sofiel trudges through the marsh of snow, barefooted; with the ice crunching sharply between her toes, it soon becomes more and more apparent that she doesn't experience the cold like the mortals do.

Their teeth chatter and their cheeks almost seem colour pink under the weather. At the slightest brush of the wintry breeze, they all seem to cower in succession, buckling down on their coats and their jackets, shivering.

Granted, the occasional breeze does get in her way at times; jostling and threatening to blow the few article of clothing she has, right off her thin frame. It still doesn't particularly bother her like the way it does for the mortals — other than just being an annoyance, of course.

In all honesty, she has never thought the cold to be anything more than just a pleasant coolness over her skin, a nice refreshing tingle across her flesh. Unlike how the mortals seem to take to it.

It's invigorating, she thinks. And if she's able to choose, she would very much prefer it to the balmy heat of summer. At least the snow cushions her feet, unlike the gritty gravel that catches between her toes and nails with every step she takes.

Sofiel sighs, slumping back against the grimy wall of an alleyway. She would have walked on forever if she could. But experience tells her otherwise, and she knows better than to push the limits of her newly recovered body.

Come night, she rests, laying low from the creatures that arise from the dark. Because everyone knows that without her Father's glorious light and protection, the night belongs to them.

The daemons and the lesser spirits, alongside the sons and daughters of her once beloved older brother — Lucifer. Celestial being or not, she knows fair well that the way she is now, leaves her in a particularly vulnerable position, and she would rather choose to avoid any forms of altercations if possible.

Dusting the snow off her tattered garbs, an ensemble made up of a dirty shirt and a pair of torn jeans, topped off with a ratty cloak – something she had picked up on a whim to rid herself of the mess of her ichor-ruined tunic – she cocks her head up skywards, peering up at the starless heavens that have ultimately forsaken her.

Bitterness claws at her chest despite herself, and it stings like sin. She drops her gaze, hanging her head with yet another sigh and instead chooses to trace figureless shapes in the snow as a form of distraction.

Without the backing of the Silver City behind her, nor the warmth and love of her Father and her siblings surrounding her, Sofiel has never felt more alone than this very moment.