Emberwood I would be complex, I would be cool.

Anyone else might have arisen at the smell of the muskrat, of the death and the meat and the freshness of it. Ibis was too far gone; her brain buzzing with fever dreams and her body too exhausted while fighting the illness. She had spent too much time travelling, too much energy talking to everyone and making sure everything was working out—she had not treated her body very well in the past few weeks as a result. To add in to that the effects of the famine, well, she wasn't doing well. When Sarah pressed her shoulder she shifted sleepily and would've kept on sleeping — but that's pretty boring and that's not conductive of a collaborative writing thread.

So she wakes up. Slow, groggy, blinking a dampness from her eyes. The corners are crusted. Her nose is crusty too, and dry, and she cannot help but run her tongue across it even if it feels rough like sandpaper. The smell finally hits her at that point but she isn't really hungry; another effect of her fever. A little yawn draws out of her and she huffs, coughs a little, turns to look around, and sees her aunt. Sarah, Ibis lilts, swallowing phlegm. That's when she notices the muskrat beside her, and perks up a little bit.

Is this for me...? Sniffle, sniffle... Hopeful stare.