This captivity has been difficult. There is little she can do to groom herself. Grime cakes her cheeks and skin, dried blood is spattered across her. Her hands have open wounds, gashes that have not had the time to heal since her arrival. Her hair is matted, her brow and neck damp with feverish sweat. Her gown is torn, particular around the hem. She could only imagine how she looks, but cares less the more this illness grips her.

She has witnessed several people rushing to escape in the chaos, but remained in place, her knees close to her chest. She wants to run, she's desperate for freedom, but her state, this illness, she knows it will slow her down. She'll be a hindrance. That lack of survival skills could only endanger the others.

When Mat calls to her, she shakes her head, silently begging him to run. At least he could save himself.