Jeron stared in silence as Chamera unpacked for camp, astonished at the almost-impossibility of pulling out so many things from such a small bag. He had seen infinite bags of holding before but never this close, and there was just something about this blatant defiance of the natural laws of physics that never got old to watch. Watching her work reminded him of his own preparations for the night. His routine was typically to sets snares for the next day's food, eat the rations he prepared that morning, wash up, and spend the night on a tree. In the morning, he would collect what his traps had caught, cook it, ration it for the day along with whatever nuts, berries, and edible foliage he could find, then set out. The presence of Chamera and that human threw off everything. Jeron's body ached; that potion he had drank wasn't nearly enough to make him feel good as new. He knew he needed to clean up, but it was getting too dark to risk roaming the woods for a nearby stream, if there even was one. He needed to take off his clothes -- his shirt, at least, inspect his wounds, and treat them the way he had treated Chamera's. Not doing this would be foolish; he could not risk infection in a place like this. He would need every ounce of energy to heal and escape this forest. But to do all of this in front of Chamera, to have her watch him.... With a scowl, he rummaged in his bag as a distraction from the tasks he had to do, doubting that he even had the strength to climb a tree. Tenderly, he removed his worn journal, the item he had gone back for after Chamera had freed him. Setting it on his lap, Jeron gingerly opened it, inspecting it more closely than he had at the jail cell to make sure it hadn't been damaged. None of the pages were torn or bent. Obviously, the Zhentarim didn't think his notes important enough to even bother to tamper with. He was a very good artist, his sketches meticulous, almost life-like. Maura had insisted he make a career of his work, something he had considered before.... Now, he doubted he could ever sell anything, not that he even wanted to. Besides, he no longer had the proper tools to sketch properly. He paused on one page, the section of the book where the spine was cracked. On it was a portrait of Maura, what he could remember of her. He had drawn it days after her death, while learning to live in this world alone. She was twelve in that picture, vibrant and smiling, frizzy hair peeking out of from underneath her headscarf, squinting against an invisible sunlight. Jeron's expression softened to melancholy, his lips twitching in an almost smile. This page, the only picture he drew of his friend, was the sole reason he had returned to that jail cell in the middle of complete chaos. Everything else in the journal he could more-or-less remember, much of it he already knew by heart, but to lose this page.... Jeron snapped the journal closed and shoved it back into his pack, not in any mood to drift away in his memories tonight, not with company about. Instead, he pulled out the item that had gotten him in trouble with the Zhentarim in the first place, the scroll he had found in Elminster's old place. He turned it around in his fingers, studying it carefully. The parchment edges were perfectly smooth, not nicked or bent, the paper white and crisp without so much as a smudge of dirt on it. The seal hadn't been tampered with; the scroll looked brand-new. Jeron found this unusual. The remains of Elminster's home was nothing but a giant heap rubble, and anything of value had been picked through. However, he had found this scroll beneath a bit of dirt and debris that looked like it had not been disturbed for some time; the brightness of the flawlessly-clean paper had drawn his attention to it. After all of that, and the rough-and-tumble it went through in his escape, how could it look so fresh and new? Why hadn't the Zhentarim broken the wax seal? Jeron broke through the wax seal himself, not thinking that perhaps doing such a thing to such an unusual item would be dangerous. Fortunately, he was not assaulted by an explosion, or a curse, or a bit of poison, or anything else magically harmful. The scroll unrolled to his ministrations like any other. Jeron's scowl deepened as he held the flattened parchment up to the firelight. The scroll was blank. Not a single ink mark, smudge, or spot could be seen anywhere on its surface. What was something like this doing here? Why would anyone bother to seal up blank parchment and hide it in some rubble? He knew there had to be a magical reason to this mystery, but he hadn't the slightest idea what it could be, and frankly he felt disappointed that he could not simply read the scroll. Jeron let go of one side of the scroll to readjust his cowl. As soon as his fingers left the parchment, the scroll rolled itself up on its own, the two edges of the broken wax seal meeting up... and melding together to re-seal itself.... Jeron gasped and dropped the scroll, his eyes wide with astonishment. It looked like an ordinary scroll against the dirt, aside from its cleanliness, but it definitely was not. Scrolls did not simply roll up on their own and reseal themselves like that. Jeron's gaze flickered upward, finding Chamera. "Did you... did you see that?"

Chamera couldn’t be certain, but it seemed as if Pan might have been recovering. The icy cast to his skin seemed lesser, somehow, but she was no healer, no true wizard, and she had not seen such an affliction in all her days. The Wychlaren would know. They knew winter and magic like she knew the magic of a song, and they could have helped. But she had no means of sending them a message. Ghyvain had known how to dream across the realms.

Where was Ghyvain? It was not the first time she’d wondered this. She and Pan had been inseparable when she had left them in Rashemen. But when Chamera had asked after their horned friend, he had shrugged and answered that they had parted ways. It had been a wall that she knew better than to scale. But Ghyvain could have called to the Wychlaren. She might have known how to heal Pan herself.

Chamera tucked a heavy woolen blanket around his limp body, dropping her forehead to his. She prayed. She prayed desperately to her Lady of Fortune. Do not let him die. I owe him so much. He has given me peace and friendship when I did not deserve it. Smile on him and bring him back to me, my Lady. Let his dice fall lucky.

Her eyes stung as she pulled away, tawny fingers splayed across his pale face. He looked so small, like he was merely a fraction of his six feet and massive frame. They had been through so much—he could not die now. She had to trust in doubt and daring that he would pull through.

She was halfway through assembling her tent when the dro—Jeron’s activities made her pause. He did not build camp, nor tend to his wounds. A crisp white scroll, starker against the pitch of his hands, instead drew her curiosity. He held it so delicately, as if it might burst into flames. It was an unusual way to study a scroll, as if he did not know quite what it was.

But he had implied that he had slipped through Elminster’s tower, and her mouth went dry. She should stop him. Elminster was a man of traps and a mind like snakes, blown to the edge of madness by the Weave in his veins. She knew what he was capable of, but her companion had slipped open the scroll before she could protest.
The scroll was blank. It was rather underwhelming. She returned her attention to securing stakes and poles through oiled canvas, the motions smooth and familiar. Jeron gasped and spoke, reclaiming her attention with the flicker of golden eyes.

Now that was interesting.

Chamera rose to her feet, approaching the scroll carefully. She eyed it as one might a trap, head cocked to one side. Slowly, she knelt, running a finger down its edges, whistling low as she tried to feel for magic. Something in it sparked warmth in her hand, familiar, but no insight flashed through her mind. It was magic—neither good nor evil—but she did not know its mysteries. She eased it from the dirt, pristine as the day its parchment had been woven.

“I’ve seen messages that act like this,” she commented thoughtfully, turning it over in her hands. “Sometimes they reveal their secrets to the right eyes, or to a command word, often both.”

She hesitated for a long moment, before breaking the wax with the slip of a thumb. The parchment did not tear as she eased it open. Something shimmered beneath her gaze, but it did not reveal ink before it dissipated to blank parchment. Chamera frowned deeply. Was this for her? How? Why? Or perhaps it was a lingering touch of magic from her simple spell.

“I don’t know,” she frowned more deeply, releasing the scroll. It snapped shut, sealing itself in the breath it took to fall to the forrest floor. She glanced to Pan, ignoring the way her heart clenched, the pool of shame and worry in her belly. “Pan will know. Or, at least, he will know how to find out.” She returned her gaze to Jeron, her brows knitting together. “You are wounded, no? Do you need assistance? I am no healer, but I can follow direction.”

Jeron held his breath as Chamera examined the scroll, his gaze glued to the parchment as she carefully stretched it open once more. What secrets did this strange scroll hold? How would Chamera discover them? He certainly felt envious at the half-elf's ability to try to decipher the scroll. If he had even a portion of her skill, he wouldn't need her help. Perhaps the remains of Elminster's tower contained more secrets waiting to be discovered by one with a magical bent. With more power, he could have escaped the Zhentarim by his own hand, could have picked the tower clean of its secrets, could be uninjured and well on his way to wherever those secrets led him next, to real power.

He was not yet sure if he regretted meeting Chamera and her companion. If Jeron was more powerful, he wouldn't have needed the pair at all, would have been content to leave them at that dark town, though Chamera had been almost suspiciously kind to him. Almost. He did not miss her guarded apprehension towards him in all of her actions nor the tension in her gaze every time she looked at him. He assumed that she had to remind herself that he wasn't a monster every time she caught sight of his dark skin or silvery hair. It would amuse him to have someone fear him despite the notion that she could probably take him in a fair fight should it happen, but he was so sick of being feared. In the end, he was very lucky to have met someone like her, though he wished the circumstances would have allowed him not to meet her at all.

That's when Jeron exhaled, shoulders slumping forward in the slightest of gestures. Her answer disappointed him. How much magic did she know, anyway? Would she at all be a suitable instructor of magic when they were ready? That's when his gaze shifted to the human resting against the tree. Jeron narrowed his eyes as he stooped down to pick up the scroll, a deep scowl lining his face as he hastily stuffed it in his bag. If anyone was going to teach him about magic, it would be that man, though he had a feeling the human would be less conducive to the idea of assisting a half-drow than Chamera was. Jeron wanted the man awake in order to gain his power, otherwise he'd rather leave him for dead. Once the human awoke, Jeron would have to keep his distance until--

Chamera's question threw Jeron off guard. He turned his head to look at her, blinking rapidly in surprise, both eyebrows raised. "No," was his immediate, instinctual response, followed by the urge to scoot back a few feet, away from the fire. He immediately regretted it; the air's evening chill felt uncomfortable without the warmth of the flames, and after all they had just been through, all that Chamera had seen of him already, he was being quite foolish.

Jeron knew he needed to tend to his wounds; falling ill was a matter of life and death to him. He also knew he could not tend to them alone, as much as he wished it. The very idea of having Chamera, or anyone else, touch him in any manner made his stomach twist in knots and his mouth go dry, but to refuse help when it was offered was too dangerous a decision to ignore.

"I-I mean yes," he snapped, his fear coming out in a snide tone. Didn't he just touch her a moment ago? It was on his own terms -- him touching her. This was entirely different.

With a sigh, he shoved a hand into his bag and pulled out a fist-ful of the weed he used to tend to Chamera's wounds. He dropped these plants on the ground, not bothering to wait for her to simply take them from him. "Chew that up as finely as you can," he remarked gruffly as he turned around. "Don't swallow it. Smooth it on my wounds -- make sure you cover every area of open skin. Don't worry about being gentle; I will be in pain regardless." With his back facing her, he gingerly attempted to pull his tunic over his head, as much as he would dare. The fabric had stuck to the skin of his open wounds; he hissed in pain as he peeled the shirt away. He didn't take it off completely -- instead it bunched across his shoulders, forcing him to hunch over. It was an awkward position, but Jeron refused to reveal more of his skin, even though Chamera had seen much of his body already. Open gashes lay across a collection of scars all over his back; this was not the first time he had been beaten in this manner. "Make it quick," he snapped, hoping his body wasn't trembling too noticeably, biting down on his bottom lip to keep his panic in check. If he had learned anything while growing up in this world, it was that nothing good came out of exposing any part or amount of his skin to anyone. It was impossible not to think that something bad was about to happen to him, his mind beginning to run through possible escape scenarios.

Really, she ought to stop being surprised by Jeron’s suspicion. She had traveled with a tiefling after all, similarly loathed by the world at large, and she had seen the worst of how people could treat the planetouched. But where Jeron spat acid (thankfully not literally), Ghyvain had simply laughed and shrugged her shoulders. Chamera tried to be patient, tried not to let her companion’s ire get beneath her skin, but it took tremendous will. He was not Ghyvain; it was unfair to judge him by her absent friend.

Uncertain how to press the issue, Chamera hesitated. He was undoubtedly wounded. He’d been in the hands of Zhents, and they never could resist the opportunity to inflict pain. Her fingers ached at the thought, deep in her bones, and she released a sharp breath.

Luckily, Jeron seemed to come to his senses, even as his concession sounded no less vicious. Arching a dark brow, Chamera shifted her weight, arms folding beneath her chest. It was evident that he was… not exactly good with people. Not everyone could be silver tongue and clever words, she knew, but it was never pleasant to be at the receiving end of vicious barbs.

Her irritation was irrelevant; Jeron had agreed and he was digging through his bag. Approaching with silent footfalls, Chamera lowered herself to her knees behind the prickly half-elf. A muscle in her jaw twitched at the thick leaves, dropped haphazardly in the dirt. Grateful that they were not face to face, her lip curled in disgust. Even after all these years, she disliked the filth of the road. There was nothing better than cities, where hot baths and soft beds were only gold and coppers away.

Gingerly lifting a pair of leaves from the soil and cleaning them on her tunic (as best she could, at least), Chamera gathered her nerve. Placing the leaves between her teeth, she bit down. Bitterness and something like rotting flesh filled her mouth. Coughing, Chamera tried to resist the urge to spit everything on the ground. Making a sound of disgust, she placed a hand to her lips. She didn’t know how valuable these were, but—

“Gods that is vile,” she hissed, face scrunched in displeasure. Jeron’s instruction to hurry up did not much endear the dark skinned elf to her favor—but before she could strike back, her golden eyes had found his back.

Oh. Oh. She had thought herself heavily scarred, but this… there were almost more white lines than dark skin, and her stomach dropped. The freshest lines were angry red and oozing, across spine and shoulders and down to the small of his back. They were expertly placed for the most return of pain, and Chamera forced herself to chew. Several moments of silence passed before she spat the bitter pulp into her off hand. The taste lingered, but Chamera loaded her fingertips with the mess of plant matter.

“I’m going to touch you now,” she informed him, her voice softer than usual. From the way he’d jumped at the mere mention of help, Chamera suspected that touching him suddenly would end poorly for her. Gingerly, she began to smear the goop across a line bisecting his shoulder blades.

How had he run for so long? Suddenly, Chamera felt rather guilty, having pushed them so far when her companion had been this wounded. Carrying Pan across both their shoulders could not have helped matters. She worked methodically, but it was slow going, forced to lift several more leaves from earth and suffer the vile taste throughout the process. She prayed to her Lady as she went, hoping perhaps that her favor might ease pain, but she was unsure if her Lady answered. She had already asked so much. At the nearest shrine, she swore, she’d upend a whole bag of gold into their coffers and do whatever work they needed. They just needed enough luck to get there alive.

It took much longer than she’d hoped it would. From the way her arm had stung, a light wound, she couldn’t imagine how keenly his wounds stung. Chamera sat back on her heels, studying the wounds. It looked like she had got them all…

“I have bandages—if that will help,” she offered hesitantly, uncertain if he would snap again. Better to be gentle, to keep tempers at bay as best she could. They needed to work together to survive, until they could get out of Zhentarim territory.

Chamera had given Jeron a courteous warning before touching him. Any anxiety, fear, and humiliation he expected upon Chamera's care froze in the wake of that one simple line. Not even Maura had thought to pay heed to his personal space in such a way. Though he never minded with Maura, Chamera's compassion for the situation touched him. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had did anything so kind to him. Of course, Chamera had rescued him when she didn't need to, but she had still regarded him with fear, still saw him as some sort of monster, still expected that he would betray her great risk and sacrifice in a way appropriate for a Drow.

This situation, however, was wholly different. There was a softness to her tone that one would never use towards someone they feared. The mere presence of the statement meant that she was aware of how uncomfortable Jeron felt about the this situation, and instead of ignoring it or belittling his reaction, she chose to acknowledge and respect his situation. Respect. That was something Jeron thought he would never receive. Though he wasn't foolish enough to assume that Chamera now respected him, he at least appreciated her capability to respect the moment. It would be a moment he would cherish.

Jeron nodded only once, a brief and awkward gesture, though it felt good to actually give consent to something without using force or fear.

The pulp against his wounds stung; Jeron concentrated on drawing in his breath slowly through his nose to keep from making a sound. It was supposed to hurt; it meant that Chamera had chewed the weed enough for the juices to be effective. For once, the pain didn't force upon him the horrific memories of his earlier experiences in captivity. For once he did not tremble in dread of the next lash of pain, wondering if it would be the last thing he'd think and feel. This pain was born of the necessity and promise of healing, so he would endure it and more knowing that it meant he would feel better and stronger in the morning.

Jeron could tell by the pressure of Chamera's fingers against his wounds that she was trying to be careful. It reminded him of those carefree evenings as a child, when Maura would tend to him in a similar manner.

"You need to stop falling off trees, silly. Soon you'll be one big, walking bruise." He could still remember Maura's soft giggle and the warmth of her hands as she pushed her healing magic into his bruised limbs. He never told her that he had gotten his bruises from his mother, afraid of Maura's reaction towards him if she found out that he was so vile of a child that his own mother needed to beat him. As they got older, he knew that Maura knew what was really happening, but she would still smile, touch his bruised skin with glowing fingertips, and tease him about falling off trees.

Jeron squeezed his eyes shut, controlling his breathing to hold back more than just the pain now. He felt very, very grateful that Chamera said nothing throughout the ordeal.

It occurred to Jeron that he should probably do something thoughtful for Chamera in return, but what? He had nothing to give her, nothing kind to say to her... His mind still mulled over the slim possibilities when she offered to bandage him up. He blinked, embarrassed that he had been caught off guard, and glanced warily over his shoulder towards her. "N-no, I'm fine," he muttered before gingerly tugging his tunic back down over his body. He probably should take up her offer, but he didn't want to be exposed longer than necessary. He did, however, manage to pause long enough to murmur a very soft "Thank you," not caring if Chamera heard him or not.

His stomach growling, Jeron decided he could be "kind" by finding something to eat. It was too dark to look for berries, he was too weak to hunt, it was too dangerous to search for water. Perhaps he could find some mushrooms to go along with the edible weeds and moss he had found. It did not occur to him that Chamera could have food in her infinite bag of holding, not at all used to asking anyone for anything or expecting anyone else to make his life easier in any way. So, he began to forage, brushing aside fallen leaves in search of anything to eat. It was not long before his aimless searching brought him near the human, Chamera's companion. He paused his search, in a crouched position as he lifted his gaze to examine the man more closely. Out of habit, he tugged at his cowl to ensure that his head was properly covered as he scowled, his eyes narrowed. The man's skin was deathly pale, his breathing shallow; Jeron wondered if he would survive the night. The half-drow wanted him to survive so he could learn magic, but this man seemed to be a dear friend to Chamera. However, there was nothing Jeron could think to do to help this man, not accustomed to helping others in this way.

He refused her offer of bandages. For a moment, Chamera thought she ought to press the issue. She was no Healer, but she didn’t think that his tunic would do much to encourage his welts to heal. Before she could protest, he had tugged the cloth down over his back and slipped away. He was surprisingly light on his feet, considering the extent of his wounds. He had a rogue’s build, certainly. Undoubtedly he had a rather easier time of slipping into shadows than most folk.

Her thighs protested as she rose to her feet. Those long hours of running and stumbling had sapped the strength from her body. She pushed herself onwards with sheer force of will, tossing mahogany hair out of her face. She longed for nothing more than the warmth of her bedroll and the blessed world of dreams.

Instead, she began to search her bag, withdrawing a small pair of cloth bundles from its considerable depths. The fire was crackling away as she began to prep a cast iron skillet, constructing its suspension with the ease of familiarity. Crumbling the hard tack and sliced cured pork into the pan, she used a small dagger to scoop a small measure of fat out from a little jar. It sizzled with a satisfying enthusiasm. It would not be nearly as satisfying as rabbit or—Gods, how she yearned for it—a home cooked meal. But it would be filling and did not necessitate further exertion. It would do.

Chamera’s scarred hand worked at a knot in her neck, trying in vain to ease the ache. She had been on the road for so long. It was time, she decided, to return to a city for a spell. Perhaps they could reach Suzail alive; not only was there a massive temple to her Lady of Luck, but she could send a message to the Harpers, to old friends, and find a way to fix her mistake.

She glanced about for Jeron, a hand resting on her blade out of habit. There—near Pan. She relaxed, jerking her head towards the fire.

“Come, eat,” she offered, before returning her attention to her bag to find her bowl and a spare little pot, scrounging up a pair of crude forks to serve the humble meal.

The smell... It was enough to make Jeron's mouth water, to pull his attention away by the far less captivating human just to watch Chamera cook. Certainly, he had cooked meat and herbs together before, but there was always something about someone else cooking the food that made the scent all the more enticing. When was the last time he had a meal cooked for him? By his mother, while he was still a child, in the rare time that she wasn't too drunk to cook. Otherwise, he had learned to prepare his own meals.

Jeron forced himself to look away, realizing that he had halfway expected Chamera to share her meal. How foolish. He could not allow himself to grow dependent on her beyond their agreement. So he resumed his search for a far less appetizing meal, though the act of pushing through weeds and peering into the shadows of the grasses seemed more an arduous task despite him knowing every herb by heart and how to look for them. Damn that smell. Damn that food. Damn Chamera.

He nearly jumped when she spoke, not because she had said something but because of what she had said. He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze pinned to the food. He opened his mouth to refuse, reminding himself that he must not be dependent on...

She offered. Why not?

Jeron stepped back into the light of the campfire and accepted the little pot of food...and the fork. He frowned as he stared at the utensil. He hadn't used one since his mother died and he had abandoned the pathetic hut he had called home, a hut that had burned to ashes along with his mother. He felt tempted to drop the fork, knowing that eating with his hands was more efficient; he had been doing it for years. However, he knew enough about humans and the like to know that eating without a utensil was considered wrong and uncivilized, and he didn't want to give Chamera any more reason to think him a filthy, savage Drow than she already did. So he sat down to his meal, staring at the contents in concentration, and ate with the fork.

Jeron shoveled the food in his mouth. By his standards, he was eating slowly, far more so than he would have with his hands. The meal wasn't gourmet by any means--not that he would know what a gourmet meal tasted like--but Jeron still found it tasty. He surprised himself by releasing a little groan of delight upon the first bite of food; to him, it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. He made sure to not make any more noises as he ate, but his eating did slow, Jeron finding himself enjoying the food instead of eating it just for the sake of filling his belly like some animal. When was the last time he had enjoyed a meal? With Maura, when she had brought him little sandwiches to sample or fruit to try, whatever a little girl could stow away from her home without her family noticing.

Tears welled in Jeron's eyes. He turned away with alarm as he continued to eat, his back to Chamera, and hastily wiped away the tears with the back of a hand. It had been years since he had cried, so he couldn't understand what had brought up such emotion now. He began to understand why humans found the act of eating such an emotional experience.

It was the quietest meal Chamera had had in months. She had spent weeks with Pan and his company. Their campsites had been merry, a collection of misfits trading stories and laughter beneath Selune's shining face and her cloak of stars. When they traded the road for inns, Chamera had traded her songs for accomodations and glittering golden coins. And before Pan, there had been Everlund, the first home she had truly known since Athkatla.

She'd spent her whole life laughing over friendly meals, fingers dancing across strings and voice raised in song.

There was no reason to sing now.

Chewing her slightly stale hard tack, Chamera could no longer ignore the gravity of just how thoroughly she had bungled her mission. Be discreet, the order had told her. Do not let the Zhentarim know you walk among them. Report back when you have answers.

She had ravaged the town, thumbed her nose at the Zhents and might as well have screamed the Harper's code at them, and left with nothing more than sketches of the runes covering the town and a half formed theory as to how the bastards had conquered the dale.

As far as jobs went, Chamera couldn't think of anything she had managed to do quite so badly in all her years adventuring.

The dr--Jeron, she reminded herself sharply, had turned his back on her, hunkered over his bowl like she might rip it from his hands. Chamera didn't know what to make of the young man, so guarded and sharp. In a way, he reminded her of the alley rats she had known as a child; they had that same look in their eyes. Cagey, vicious, distrustful, like someone might strike them at any moment if they were more than shadows. Chamera hadn't realised how justified that fear was until she had been much older and elbows deep in the guts of slavers preying on the alley rats of another city.

"I'll take first watch," Chamera remarked as she scraped the remaining foodstuff of her bowl into the flames. They would need to snuff the flames out soon and settle into silence. "We cannot linger here for more than a few hours. We need to get moving and find the road south to Suzail before the Zhents or the wilds find us."

Tucking her bowl and fork back into a canvas bag and depositing them in her pocket plane, she shifted through the pack until a coil of rope and hook and a spindly, green wand came to hand. She could find a home in the tree above Pan and get a decent view of the area, and hopefully pick off anything that might come for them in the night.

Chamera winced as she rose to her feet, joints creaking in the night. She gazed out into the night for a long moment, ears twitching faintly as she listened, cataloguing the low hum of the woods. She flicked her gaze back to her conscious companion, forehead creasing as she attempted a smile.

"There's a bedroll in the tent you can use. Get what rest you can; I'll need you on watch in a few hours."