( The problem here was, so far as Ellie could see it, was that there were people. Too many people, a claustrophobic press of Transports jammed in so that she felt like she suddenly had some idea what it was like for cattle to be run through the crush. Whether or not they were all destined for an abattoir was another matter entirely.
Not just that, but they weren't the right people. Some of them seemed decent enough, but they weren't her human safety blanket or the guy that kept them all going, or the one that she could always feel superior to. (To be honest, it was a relief none of them were Lee.)

This might be why she is addressing the network from one of the bombed out buildings rather than her place, which she hasnt visited for a few days. Ellie's just surrounded by debris, dirt and water damaged walls, though some of the prior are concealed by some pretty massive piles of paper. She's propping herself up on her elbows, not looking right at the device. )

I was wondering what there is around here in the way of record keeping. I mean, these things have got a lot on them, but something other than that. Pens, paper - the tangible stuff. In case the network fails, or something.

There's probably already something, but I haven't had time to figure all that out yet. And maybe if there isn't, we should make one. Record the people who have been here, what they know, experiences and stuff. Not just stuff that happens here, but before. Or, um, elsewhere, I guess. Wherever home is.

( Despite this being a video broadcast, and deliberately so, she has to yet glanced at the camera. She does now, very briefly, but there is a definite guilty expression to it. Ellie opens her mouth again, but thinks better of it. )

[There's an exhale, a sound of fire crackling in the background. Ygritte has her furs on tonight, cold and alone. It's got her thinking.]

All this talk of war and all this new technology this place has, metal buildings, them weapons to wipe out the land and the trees, none's ever talked about death here. Like it's some cloaked figure. Death is a companion o' war. If you've ever killed someone, you'd know it.

[A pause.] I'm not afraid o' dyin'. My people have the blood o' the First Men in us. The children o' the forest used t'believe when you died you became a part o' the weirwood, but there's no weirwood trees about here. No heart trees neither. Suppose they believe different in the south, their Seven. There's no weirwood there neither.

I wonder what's t'become o' me now. Or any o' us. We burn our dead. Wouldn't want to come back anyhow, unnatural as it is. Though none o' you know the Others.

[She pauses again, mulling something over. People are always telling her how she must be glad she isn't home. No, it hurts still. It will always hurt.]

I'd like t'go north. How long does it take to get there? I've never been to the other part o' the city nor what lies beyond it.