Miss Imogen is exhausted. She empties her flask of water, which had been running low already. "Replenishing this with wine will not help," she says to no one in particular. "We need to be able to drink."
She undoes her boots, and positions herself next to a wall, checking it carefully, before she falls asleep. Someone will wake her for her watch, she presumes.
When she does awake, she finds she has not slept well at all. She bundles up her bedroll, and runs her hand over her clothing, freezing what moisture there is in the air, and extracting the ice particples from the weave of the fabric. It keeps things clean, and by the time she is done, both her clothes and hair look immaculate. Nevertheless, with no toilet and no good food, she is intemperate. Her quiver hangs at her hip, and she is ready to go.