The forest cryptid didn't want to leave home now that'd she'd come back again, but she was going downhill. Her unkept pelt was matting and there was no trace of color left that she always decorated herself in, but neither seemed to bother Fiora. The tip of her muzzle was burned from repeated attempts to get water from the lake only to recoil from its poisoned surface at contact. Worst of all though, was the hunger -- the terrible hunger. It gnawed at her from the inside out as if consuming herself, and Fiora could hardly sleep for it.
But there was nothing here in the Respite where the thread of sentiment had tethered her, and she was growing thin.
She had not the mind to plan anymore, and even when she told herself 'hey, maybe it's time to leave', she usually lost track of what she was doing mid-stride and wandering back towards what was familiar. How long would it remain familiar?

Fiora didn't know where anyone was. She remembered that Mir should have been close, but not when they'd spoken last. Last night? Last month? Across the valley? She remembered speaking with the twins, but that, too, could've been last night or any span of time before. Everything blurred together, and only certain moments stood out in her mind.

There was fog on the ground and clouds in the sky, and Fiora's only current thought was that it was cold. She had wandered back down for the upteenth time to the lakes quiet surface for a drink and, upon dipping her lips into the purple-hued water, jerked back with a dismayed note to stumble away again. After a few steps, she paused and cast her tongue around her scabbing muzzle and whined, dipping her head to lap at the morning dew off of the nearest autumn-wilted leaf.

She ate it, gnawing the wet, not-at-all-crunchy leaf with a flat look of shadowed, miserable indifference.