[IC] Vanish Into Light

[Alfbie]

"This, my fine citizens, is what happens when anyone tries to steal from the Zhentarim."

The guard stepped around his captive in the Shadowdale town square, taking slow, deliberate steps like a cat circling his prey just before striking. A small cluster of men, women, and children gathered around on that bright late-summer afternoon as they watched the scene unfold. Every face wore a grim expression, tension held in every body, some children cringing into the embraces of their parents. Whether the crowd was forced to watch or were spellbound by some morbid curiosity, it was difficult to tell. The only certainty was in the action and the message it conveyed.

Tied to a post was a Drow elf... or was he a half-drow? His pointed ears and silvery-white hair were unmistakably Drow. His skin was a smoky grey instead of the typical black pitch. He seemed taller than an average Drow, though his position on his knees with his hands bound above his head to the post made that assessment difficult to gauge. If anyone had bothered to approach him, to push back the strands of hair dampened from sweat and blood from his face, they would encounter startlingly-human brown eyes instead of the unsettling red of a typical Drow as well as the shadow of facial hair beginning to grow on his slender face.

Jeron Mel'velen, however, kept his head bowed, tried his best to turn his face away from the crowd. The knowledge of all of those eyes on him, looking at him, was almost as bad as the injuries he had sustained since being foolishly caught by the Zhentarim in the area. He had been raised to believe he was a monster, that if anyone looked at him, he would die. The older scars that marked his body were indication that such a notion was reinforced; this was not the first time he had been captured, though this was probably the first time he had been for a reason other than his appearance.

Jeron was stripped away to nothing but his dark trousers; never had his body been so exposed to anyone. He could hear the frightened, confused whispers around him, each sound a catalyst to his death sentence. His back throbbed and stung from the lashes he had received just moments ago, the weight of his back pressed against the post a prolonged agony. Every muscle ached from the beating he had suffered, and every intake of breath was a reminder, sharp like a knife, of his broken rib. How was he going to get out of this one?

In the past, in another land, his captors had been so quick to kill him that one of them didn't realize he was close enough for Jeron to grab the dagger strapped to his belt. The time before, in yet a different place, the ropes that bound him weren't quite tight enough. And the time before, in another town still, he had been young enough to have unwittingly caught the eye of a guard with a desire of a certain type of young flesh, and those terrifying, painful, and humiliating moments had also presented a chance for a breakaway opportunity...

Jeron was a nomad, never staying in one place for more than a day. He found it a necessary survival skill. Had he known that the Dalelands were overtaken by the Zhentarim, he would have stayed clear of these lands. Perhaps the signs were there and he had been too distracted, too foolish, by the possibility of the treasures he would find at Elminster's dwelling. Whatever the case, he had been spotted, was unable to evade the Zhentarim, had not found the chance to slip from their clutches. Now he firmly believed that he would die this day.

How strange to be so hated yet still have such a strong desire to live...

"This... creature," the guard said, gesturing with an extended arm to Jeron as he engaged his audience, "thought he could enter your lands, our lands, and take something from us. The public beating he received, the lashings... any one of you will receive the same fate if you ever dare such a thing. But I am compassionate; I have given you all a chance to see first-hand what disrespecting Bane and the Zhentarim will do. However, we now have a bigger issue in our hands."

The guard -- messy brown hair and a cruel sneer -- turned to face Jeron. "This creature is Drow. I'm sure you've all heard of their terrifying reputation. Such creatures are like ants -- emerging from the ground, swarming around their prey, leaving nothing behind in their terrifying wake. Where there is one, there are many nearby."

Jeron shuddered. This, at least, was familiar. Trying to explain that he was only half-drow, that he had been raised on the surface, that he had never seen a true Drow elf was a futile experience he had gone through many times in the past. He had long ago determined that humans were incapable of listening to reason when faced with irrational fear. Still, he hated being associated with the likes of beings that had done terrible things he would never have the courage to do. He hated suffering over this misconception. And now it seemed that he would die over it.

"Today, you will witness an execution," the Zhentarim guard said almost mirthfully. "But this Drow won't die right away, not when we can extract some information from the monster. The whereabouts of other nearby Drow, perhaps? Or how about the location of an entrance to the Underdark? Even killing him for the sake of killing him is deserving for the likes of him. Now..."

The guard held out a hand as another approached holding a large, heavy set of metal pincers. The first guard took the tool, his gaze slowly assessing Jeron like one would eye a puzzle. The half-drow glanced up, his expression grim but his eyes showing full fear.

"Perhaps, if we pinch off bits of this Drow, finger by finger, toe by toe, we could gain some information."

There were several gasps in the crowd, a restless stirring rippling through the growing throng of people. It was one thing to watch a Drow die; it was another to see him slowly tortured.

Jeron began to squirm despite his body's protests with pain. Though he was on his knees, his ankles were firmly tied to the post in such a way that would leave him unable to even climb to his feet. The best he could do was sway and buck against the post, tearing up his already-shredded back in the process. What he wouldn't give to know enough magic to somehow break free from these bonds, to fly away... Or, better yet, how sweet revenge must feel to cast flames upon the wretched man with the pliers...

The half-drow's futile struggling to break free only seemed to encourage the guard. He stepped forward, reaching up to hold still one of Jeron's fingers with one hand as he positioned the pincers with the other. "It's not too late to confess what you know about your comrades," he drawled.

Jeron pulled with all of his might against his bonds, the lean muscles of his body straining. "I told you," he gasped. "I don't know--"
"Wrong answer..."

[El Taco Taco]

The last time Chamera Balkious had been in Shadowdale, she had been newly ten and six and had barely known the pointy end of a blade from the hilt. It had been summer, her first away from Amn, and she remembered marveling at how very green the Dales were. Still more child than woman, she had been drunk on the joy of adventure and fine company. Shadowdale had been the realization of years of stories and hopes and dreams carefully cradled in a heart that found no peace working on a tavern's floor. Learning the dance of a blade, the wonder of magic, and oh, the stories her companions had to tell… it had been more than she could have ever dreamed of. They had not stayed in Shadowdale for long; after its ruins held no more treasure or challenge, they had gone south. Chamera had placed that glorious summer deep in her heart. There had been many times over the past ten years where she had pulled Shadowdale out for comfort or a laugh.

This was not the Shadowdale of her memory. It was quiet, now—tense. Once, the Old Skull Inn had been a jaunty place, where wine flowed freely and there was always a song. No one danced now. Few spoke, and when they did it was in hushed tones and the words died quickly. Chamera had never seen the place so bereft of adventurers. How many children of ten and six, eager to embark upon their stories, were absent from its halls? Chamera had anticipated a sea of men and women out to strike their fortune to hide in; her six companions were the only ones talking of expeditions to the ruins in the entire town. It would not be easy to be a nameless face without a crowd.

The soothing touch of her pin, concealed deep within the folds of her cloak, was small comfort. In all of Faerûn, there were few places more dangerous than under the nose of Zhentarim for a Harper. Shadowdale, homeland of Elminster, a High Harper himself, a chosen of Mystra and arguably the most powerful wizard in the realms—was consumed by tyrannical zealots fueled by profane magic. This vile magic had thwarted the legend himself, barring him from entering his own homeland. She had heard of his attempt to teleport to the dale. The resulting explosion had nearly torn down their headquarters. Storm Silverhand had been similarly rebuked.

Something had been done to the Weave here. Chamera had attempted to summon dancing lights to amuse a child at dinner her first night in town. The spell had very nearly gotten away from her. What should have been gently twinkling lights had been wild sparks that blistered her fingertips. Pan, the sorcerer among her companions, had been ill from the moment they had entered the Dale. She was no arcane scholar, but she knew enough to know things were connected. Her skulking and careful detection of magic had yielded runes painted on every surface imaginable. She had sketched the runes in her journal, but none of her companions could even identify the language. Some of the markings seemed Infernal; perhaps these belonged to a dialect or sister language? That thought was alarming, to put it mildly. She’d had enough of devils for a lifetime.

Chamera had only been in town for a week, and everything she had learned had been troubling. The Zhentarim takeover had been brutally swift. No one had even known they were eyeing the Dale. One day, Falconhand had ruled; the next, his body had swung from the Tower of Ashaba. The temples had been defiled, the defiant had been executed, and the sigil of Bane was raised in every corner of the land. Shadowdale had been conquered in the silence between breaths.

In the dead of night, she had visited what had once been The House of the Lady. Of all the memories of Shadowdale, there had been none fonder than her days in her Lady’s House. The burned skeleton of the temple, defiled with corpses and its gold robbed, was a wound upon the earth. Chamera had walked its old halls, trying to transpose her recollection onto the shadows. But she could not see the kind face of the High Preceptress in all the death, or the clerics who had treated her numerous injuries with soft hands and bright smiles. For a child who had grown up in the slums of Athkatla, Tymora’s temple had been a wonder. Gold and magic had adorned every surface and songs of daring had filled her halls with warmth. It had been a place of laughter. And it was gone. The innkeeper had whispered with bitter satisfaction that the old High Preceptress had killed nearly a dozen of the damn Zhentarim as they stormed the temple, each blow luckier than the last. Chamera kept that thought close to her heart.

Her traveling companions were impatient to set out for their planned adventure. She couldn’t blame them. Why linger with Zhentarim about? But she needed more time. She couldn’t leave. Not without something to bring back to her brethren in Everlund. A weapon, a secret, anything that could bring them an edge when they reclaimed the dale. Time. She just needed more time to keep greasing hands and find a weak point.



The Zhentarim gave her no such time. The morning came with armed guards ordering them to the town square. Her companions griped. Another delay, another day before they could set out for glory and treasure. Chamera commiserated with them, fastening her cloak around her shoulders. She felt naked, without her coins woven through her braids. She could only hope the Lady would understand. The Zhentarim had refused to allow her party entrance to the town before they had put away the symbols of other gods. They had obeyed. The rotting corpses of dissidents alongside the road were a strong deterrent to complaints.

The crowd was already several hundred strong by the time she and her companions arrived. Clouds thick with rain hovered on the horizon. Wind was beginning to kick up, tugging at hair and cloaks. The chill cut through her leathers. How many of her shivers were due to the weather, and how many due to the Zhentarim prowled the perimeter? Far too many of the bastards lingered near her party. They were the only ones openly armed, she realized, swearing beneath her breath. Gods, what fools they were. They were too obvious, with their steel and leathers. Too many eyes lingered on them. She was almost relieved when the crowd’s attention was commanded to a large pole erected on a wooden dais. Then she realized what she was looking at, and the relief turned to dread.

“Lady preserve us,” she whispered, thumbing one of the lucky coins in her pocket. A Drow in Shadowdale? This was a bad omen. She knew the stories, of course. Drow brutality was legendary. And more than anyone, Chamera knew that even the most exaggerated of tales had kernels of truths at their core.

“We should leave,” Pan muttered out the side of his mouth. “Zhents are one thing. No treasure is worth Drow.”

She hushed him. Privately, she agreed. She yearned for the road home, for the something she was meant to find here, and leagues between her and Drow. But the Zhent was speaking and she stilled.

The Zhentarim loved their theatrics. It was impossible not to get swept up in the drama. Frightened whispers echoed throughout the crowd, played like a lute by the guard captain. It was remarkably effective. The guard’s speech turned from execution into all too familiar territory. The Black Lord did so love sacrifice. And what a treasure they must have found the Drow. After all, the stronger the blood, the better the gift. Her fist clenched, leather creaking. It was hell, to stand and watch, paralysed by the need for secrecy and shadows. She hated her compliance. It was not brave. It was not bold. It violated every instinct in her body to bite her tongue. She had been chosen to investigate Shadowdale for her stealth as much as her charm, but this was more than she could bear.

Drow or not, this was wrong. She couldn’t just stand here and watch the psychopaths work. She knew brands and blades and the terror of dying. No one deserved that, no matter their crime. She would not be complicit. Secrecy be damned; Chamera had never been good at behaving.

The crowd was a shifting mass, people working their way closer to the platform, hissing curses. As much as people hated the Zhentarim, there was nothing more loathed than a dark elf. She slipped away from her companions, let the shifting currents of people pull her closer.

Lady, I’m about to do something incredibly daft. May your dice fall lucky.

Her pouch was a fiddly thing, the buckle catching on itself. She scanned her surroundings—townspeople as far as the eye could see, mounted guards at the edges, the stage with the guard and prisoner, a table off to one side. The horde was tightly packed, elbows digging into her side as she drew closer. It was easy to slip her hand into the pouch unobserved. Thumbing through, she found a scrap of sheet music, and slipped it out.

For a moment, she hesitated. With the Weave as unstable as it was, this could end spectacularly badly. She knew enough of magic to know that she knew hardly anything. If dancing lights had nearly burned down the inn, what would a proper spell do? Hazel eyes fell upon the dais, to the Zhentarim and his gods damned smirk. Her temper flared, and she threw caution to the wind. She’d just have to survive the aftermath. Chamera was good at that.

Whistling softly, she focused, tapping into the faint curl of magic in her breast. It answered in a wild rush, bucking and straining for violent release. Her fingers danced, tracing out a familiar pattern, and every inch of her burned. The parchment smoked, burst into silvery lights, and she grinned through her whistle. That was new. Whatever had been done to the Weave, she quite liked how it felt, surging with power, like an unbroken horse on a mad charge. Pan had said it felt rather like he was about to be ripped to shreds, but Chamera found the sensation delightful. Was this how wizards felt all the time? No wonder so many of them went strange.

The mass of bodies around her was already feeling the effects of the spell. Hands touched foreheads, faces scrunching. She’d never seen it work so quickly. It rippled outwards, filling minds with a blaring cacophony of discordant drums and horns and screams. From experience, she knew it was deeply unpleasant. The first time she’d been hit with the enchantment, she’d puked on her own boots, and subsequently nearly been skewered. She wished she could have directed it, spared the town folk, but the spell had taken a life of its own.

The guards that hadn’t been affected were shouting at the crowd. The atmosphere had transformed. People were moving far more violently, straining to escape the charm, others trying to run from the madness. The din produced was almost as loud as her spell. Panic was setting in all around her. In the mess of the crowd, it was difficult to unsheathe the dirk from her boot. Guards were shouting, steel was being drawn; someone in the mass, mad with the incessant drumming, had lashed out and struck one of the guards. Shit. The dice had not landed well.

Chamera didn’t have time to feel guilty. She had no idea where here companions were, but she had to trust they could look after themselves. Things were going to the nine hells, fast. She was nearly knocked over by a man built like a small house, running and spewing his breakfast violently. That looked a lot more painful than her experience. She swore, and began to push her own way through the crowd. It was done, and she had to at least make use of her distraction before the enchantment ended.

It was a nightmare, getting to the platform. No one wanted to be near it, and most of the humans fleeing were a lot bigger than her. Someone’s elbow smashed into her nose, and she staggered, eyes watering. Broken, probably, she deserved that—shaking her head, Chamera shoved her way through, blade held tightly. Her cloak snagged, but she tugged and broke free, staggered out into an area blessedly devoid of bodies. The crowd was fully panicked, the sheer volume of people providing her just enough moments to work. There would be arrows soon, and she was but one woman.

The platform was raised nearly above her head. It was shoddily constructed, clearly built for the purpose of the execution. They hadn’t bothered with stairs. Lazy bastards. Lithe and fueled by adrenaline, she made short work of footholds and heaved herself up. She kept low, as if she wasn’t horribly exposed up here.

The guard was recovering. His eyes were focusing—on her. Shit shit shit! She hadn’t realized how massive the man was, down in the crowd, fueled by righteous indignation. There wasn’t any time to berate her stupidity further. Move or die. She reached for her magic, pulled it into her throat, burning the air in her lungs. No wonder Mystra’s Chosen hadn’t been able to teleport here—even her clumsy brushes with the Weave were exquisite agony. She couldn’t imagine what it would be to truly dig deep here. Poor Pan. He lived and breathed magic She wished she hadn’t been so hard on him and his complaints. Hopefully he wasn’t dead.

Chamera screamed straight at the Zhent, staggering herself under the force erupting from her throat. He shrugged off the sonic force, but she had weighted the blade and chucked it with barely a thought for aim.

Tymora’s dice fell luckier this time. The blade sunk into an eye, dropping the man. Before she could celebrate, she sighted reinforcements approaching and the crowd beginning to thin. No more time. She dug for the blade in her opposing boot, and turned to the center of the platform.

Her finely honed survival instincts told her to dive off and get away from the pole and the nightmare bound to it. Stupidly, Chamera ignored her instincts, and approached. Her dagger aloft, she skirted around, kneeling to better access ropes. The ropes, annoyingly, were of decent quality, and she sawed as quickly as her nervous hands would let her. Finally, she felt the fibers snapping, and she jerked her arm as fiercely as she could manage, rope slackening in her hands. Just one more set to cut—

“Don’t kill me, just run,” she whispered desperately, working the blade into the gap of ropes to cut. Her heart raced. Chamera felt it might explode out of her chest. She sawed, pulled, and the ropes broke. Looking up, she paled. That was a lot of angry Zhents getting very close. This had to be the daftest thing she’d ever done. She was going to die here. Gods, she wasn’t ready to die. She pressed the dagger into the Drow’s hand, pushing forward to reclaim her dirk. No time to dig out her lute or bow from her bag of holding. She stumbled, heard an arrow sail overhead, and dropped to wrench her blade from its eye socket. The blade jerked free. She’d die here, but she’d die armed.

Brave and bold had gotten her into this mess; time to switch tactics. Chamera turned and ran.

[Alfbie]

Jeron felt the cool, hard steel of the pliers against his fingers. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the pain that was sure to come. Fear had paralyzed him; he knew this Zhentarim guard would not stop until he was maimed beyond repair. How was he to live without his fingers? That's right -- he would not live. He would die on this day, chained to a post, his life viciously delivered like a prize to a thirsty, vengeful crowd.

He could hear the crowd, could almost feel their energy. Kindness was lost to him, not to be trusted, for he knew that gentle mothers, smiling grandpas, kindly wives, and thoughtful men stood amongst those watching him. Every village had good people, but there was nothing wholesome about yearning for the death of someone else, someone they had never met, someone that had done nothing to them or their families. To Jeron, there was no such thing as a good person; he had seen the darkness in everyone he had met. Would his suffering satisfy them at least? Would it bring this crowd a sort of comfort to know that someone who fit the physical description of evil was dying before their very eyes? Somehow, he could not find solace in knowing that his violent end would bring peace to their hearts.

Memories always helped with the pain and the fear, at least this was what he had come to discover in past experiences. Perhaps, by drifting back and away from this place, the horror of what he was about to endure would not be so agonizing. So he thought of that night, years ago, when the full moon was so bright its light snuffed out the stars around it. The breeze had been refreshing relief to what was a hot summer day. The meadow was alive with the night -- of crickets serenading the breeze, of the distant call of a hound, of the wind whispering through the surrounding trees that were but large black shapes in the shadows...

Jeron had only been eight years old at that time. His body ached with the bruises his human mother inflicted on him, fresh ones slowly blossoming over fading ones. Whenever she got to drinking, which was almost every night, she would remind him quite thoroughly of how much he had ruined her life just by being born. Her being drunk was both a curse and a blessing, for it not only brought out her anguish but, after some time, it left her sleepy and delirious in the tiny shack in the woods they -- no, she -- called home. Jeron would make a habit of sneaking out of the house after these times; a great risk, for if he was discovered, he would surely be killed. For some reason, however, seeing his mother sleep on the floor by a puddle of her own vomit was almost worse than suffering through her beatings; he had to get away.

He could smell the natural sweetness in the air, the calming aroma of nightblossoms. They were small white flowers that resembled violets, holding true to their namesake of only blooming at night. Nightblossoms were a rare flower; few souls were lucky enough to see their pale beauty in the darkness. On this night, the entire meadow near Jeron's home was covered in them.

The meadow almost seemed to glow, the full moon illuminating every pale petal that yielded to the silvery light. Jeron walked slowly through the meadow, the tall-stemmed flowers brushing against his waist. His skin was as dark as the stems, his silver hair also glowing under the moonlight. He paused in the middle of the field, tilting his head up to the sky, and wondered what it would take to touch the moon. Could the moon pull him into its safe embrace if he reached it, away from his mother, from people, from the nearby village, from the beatings, the fear, and the constant hiding? Tentatively, he began to reach up towards the sky...

And he heard a little gasp a few yards in front of him.

Jeron, young as he was, snapped his arm back to his side and immediately crouched down, doing his best to hide among the flowers. Unfortunately, he had already been spotted. A young human girl, approximately his age, slowly sat up from the ground. Wisps of frizzy blonde hair, loosened from beneath the scarf she wore around her head, waved gently in the breeze around her face. She stared wide-eyed at him with round, blue eyes that were shiny from crying; her freckled cheeks were stained with tears.

At that point in his life, before his mother's death, the loneliness, and the unpleasant encounters with people, Jeron had thought her the most terrifying creature he had ever seen... and the most captivating.

Maura would change his life forever. Oh, how he missed her...

The pain did not come.

Surely Jeron hadn't immersed himself in the memory that deeply, though he wished he had. He could no longer feel the pliers against his skin, and he wondered what the delay was. He dared to crack open one eye, seeing the crowd below him in utter chaos.

Both eyes snapped open. Jeron watched with shock as villagers pushed and bumped against each other, everyone in a panic to get away. Many were retching, some seemed so disoriented they could barely keep on their feet. It was as though a sickness had swept across the crowd in one fell swoop. He had never seen anything like this before, so he could only suspect that magic was at work.

He strained against his bonds once more, worried that whatever spell had been inflicted on these people would reach him, too. He knew enough of magic to do small, simple things, like summon a flame of light at his fingertips. However, his current state of weakness and his inexperience with magic was enough that he could not muster the strength to reach into the Weave to summon the power to set himself free.

The trembling thud of a body hitting the floorboards brought Jeron's attention to his captor... and the being that felled him. Seeing her stand on the platform with a guard at her feet reminded him of another night in his past, of when he was twelve, bound to a post in a similar fashion, captured for the very first time. It was Maura who had felled that guard, a man who was a father to a classmate of hers that she had grown up with. Magic crackled at her fingertips. She had looked just as frightened then as she did the very first time she and Jeron had met, but never, not even then, had Jeron been the source of that fear.

But this wasn't Maura. This was someone else entirely, someone with a dagger and unknown intentions. Jeron tugged, squirmed, and strained against his bonds anew as she approached, wondering if she was a villager fed up with the guard's theatrics who had decided to take advantage of this strange situation to kill him herself.

His struggling ceased when she applied the dagger instead to the ropes binding him. He watched in shock as the ropes frayed and parted before settling his gaze on her, almost seeing Maura's determined look in this woman's eyes. Maura, too, had struggled desperately to free him all those years ago.

The woman's whispered words left him bewildered. Here he was thinking she was about to kill him and she was worried about him killing her?! There was no time to think, however, only act when the last rope was cut. Living his entire life in hiding and on the run, Jeron never passed up an opportunity for escape. Thus, as soon as he felt his limbs loosen from his bonds, he ignored his savior completely and took off in a dead run... or at least tried to. He was badly injured and weak, so he had only managed a few steps before he staggered, fell, and tumbled off the platform.

It was a wonder he didn't accidentally stab himself with the dagger he was barely aware of holding. The pain of falling was intense, but adrenaline was a powerful thing. It numbed him from his body's pain and fueled him to stagger forward as quickly as he was capable of...

...except he did not run along the road that lead him out of town. No, instead he ran straight towards the jail cell. He was not leaving without his knapsack. It was not the artifact he had stolen that had him concerned, but a very precious journal he had kept since he was young. It was the only thing left in this world that he cared about, and he would rather die than leave without it.

Those guards that weren't sick or distracted by the villagers were after the person that had killed their comrade. Essentially, he couldn't have chosen a more perfect time to find his things and sneak out of Shadowdale, except he knew exactly what happened to the last person that tried to rescue him. He had low expectations for his savior's survival.

Besides, the villagers were beginning to calm down and the remaining Zhentarim guards were beginning to come to their senses. Even with her distraction, it would be difficult to leave here. Jeron would need some help getting his things.

So he ignored the jail cell, instead running along an alley parallel to the woman's path. He had no idea what he would do once he had gotten her attention; no one had ever taught him to fight and Maura had never managed to teach him defensive magic. Still, she had saved him, which was something no one ever did, and he would not let her kindness result in her death.

Frantically, Jeron scrambled over several crates and barrels stacked against a bakery to access the roof. It was painful; his breath ran ragged from the agony, but it did not stop him from letting out a sharp whistle.

As soon as he heard the piercing noise, he regretted his decision. He never called attention to himself, so surely he had gone mad, but it worked. Half of the guards chasing the woman stopped to look up. Jeron immediately flattened himself on his stomach; an arrow whizzed by his head. Hopefully his stupid stunt gave his savior the chance to safely escape. Now he had to figure out how to do the same. At least he was on the roof; he felt safer in high places. The arrows wouldn't reach him so long as he didn't stand up, and the other Zhents would have to climb up the roof to get to him, essentially creating a bottleneck. Still, without an escape plan, his prospects of leaving this rooftop alive were slim. Grimly, he clutched at his dagger and waited for the first guard...

[El Taco Taco]

This was the second most foolish thing Chamera had ever done. She was not built for fighting her way out of mobs of guards without someone else to take the brunt of the assault. Freeing a sacrifice in the middle of a city controlled by Zhentarim without even one large friend in armor was simple madness. She would have cursed her stupidity, had she the time to think of anything but her immediate survival.

The crowd was panicked, scrambling to clear away from the swing of blades and the flight of arrows. Chamera navigated the mass of bodies with sharp elbows and quick footwork, her body moving on pure instinct. Someone was shoved into her back, nearly knocking her over, another had grabbed the tail of her cloak and pulled her towards them. She lashed out, blade singing through the emerald cloth and freeing her. She pushed onwards, all too aware of how far she was from freedom. The woods, she thought desperately, I just have to reach the woods.

Shouts echoed behind her, taunts and curses, and gods she was barely outpacing those heavy footsteps. They were closing on her. Ahead, more guards—the crowd was clearing, she was being exposed—she turned sharply on heel, rushing the Zhent closest with a war cry and the weight of her form behind her blade. Caught off guard, he stumbled beneath her, and her blade found the softness of his neck between his armor. They landed in a mess of limbs and steel. Directing the fall into a painful tumble, she slipped away, jerking her blade free from his vocal cords and barely darting away from a volley of arrows.

A whistle, sharp and pure—Chamera barely processed it, as a blade nearly as tall as her had nearly split her clean in two. She swore, twisting her body to avoid another blow; a fair number of the guards had turned to the source. She barely caught sight of inky skin and white hair before she had to roll to avoid being skewered. An arrow snapped through the trailing remnants of her cloak, followed by another that nearly found its home in her arm. That gods damned archer was pushing her towards waiting blades, there were too many—

“Chamera! DOWN!”

She threw herself to the dirt road, curled around her vitals. She shut her eyes as tight as she could. The heat exploding around her felt as potent as dragonfire, choking the air in her lungs. The roar of fire was deafening, drowning out the world in blistering chaos. The stench of cooked meat and ash filled her nose. Chamera gagged, scrambling to her feet in the sudden quiet, stumbling. A steadying hand grabbed her elbow, and she was glad to see Pan, even with the rage in his eyes. Her arm smarted beneath his hand, still red hot from his spell. He released her with a scowl, shaking his hands free of lingering flames and sparks.

The flames had made horrific work of her assailants, blackening skin like spent torches. Half a dozen had been felled—including that pesky archer. Whatever horror had been done to the Weave, it certainly gave results. Through the burned hair and flesh, she could taste the metallic tang of magic, still shimmering in the air. Pan looked as though he might be sick, but he kept it together long enough to turn on her with a snarl,

“What in the hells are you doing?! Have you gone utterly mad?”
Chamera scanned—more Zhentarim coming from the west, and Gods there were robed men in those numbers. They had to move. She grabbed Pan’s thick arm, wincing at the sparks of magic that burned through the thin leather of her glove, urging him to follow her. He did not budge; he easily had three stone on her, and his eyes burned with questions.
“Probably,” she conceded, voice high in panic, “We have to go, Pan—the others, are they—? “
“We were separated,” he finally gave into her frantic tug, keeping pace with her. There was no time to bicker when there were torture-worshipping zealots out for their blood. “What are you doing?”

She didn’t answer, hazel eyes frantically scouring her surroundings. Zhentarim closing in, some hanging further back, hands waving in deliberate patterns. She pushed onwards, running blindly. Pan swore, dragging her low beneath a glowing green arrow. Her eyes stung bitterly at the lingering cloud of acid. Her lungs felt as though they might ignite. Gods, what had she done? How many people would die because of her poor impulse control? She forced herself to ignore the thought, digging in her pouch, hand slipping into the pocket dimension. Arcs of electricity ran up her arm, searing through her scale shirt, searing her flesh. There! She retrieved the flask, swearing in every language she knew as she snapped her arm and threw the glass at an approaching pair of guards on her right. It shattered against one’s leg, fire leaping out to engulf the man. It spread to his companion with a brush of an arm. It exploded outwards, snaking out in its hunt for fuel.

There were too many Zhentarim to run directly for the woods. They were going to have to fight. Pan was whispering quickly, hands dancing, and he’d barely raised an orb of violently shimmering lights before turning and retching into the dirt, sweat beading on his fair skin. Chamera watched, mesmerized, as arrows disintegrated against its surface. It billowed outwards, giving them a good six feet of earth in all directions. A shower of magical missiles exploded in beautiful magenta lights directly above her head. Everything tasted of ozone and metal. The Zhentarim wisely kept their distance, waiting. Shaking herself back to reality, she scoured for something, anything that could help them.
“The Drow—“ she said suddenly—where—he’d whistled and likely saved her life—the rooftops, dead ahead.
“Damn the Drow, we need to get out of here,” Pan spat. His hands were still pale silver, and she could see blisters raising all along his arms. Shit! That could not be good!
“I can’t leave him to die,” she discarded the remains of her cloak. All of her lucky coins had gone with the pockets, but the gods had been kind and her pin had not been lost. She retrieved it from the scraps of cloth and placed it to her lips in grateful prayer. “He drew the Zhents off me, Pan. You know what will happen if they catch him again. I can’t abide that.”
“Oh hells, you’re a damned Harper? Damn it woman, do you have any sense in that head of yours?” Pan clearly disapproved of the little silver moon and harp she was busy pinning into the neck of her tunic, his rage renewed. The bald sorcerer had made no secret of his distaste for Daft Heroic Types in the weeks they had traveled together—and for some reason, his fury made her grin. The orb stood strong under another volley of spells, humming all around them. She spoke in a rush,
“Afraid not. Look, none of us are getting out of this alive without help. And you can’t get paid a pretty fortune if I’m dead. Pan— my friends have deep pockets. You help me get that Drow out of here alive, and I’ll get you a proper reward.”

Pan considered her offer. For one, horrible moment she thought he might refuse. But his cracked lips split into a wide smirk, and she was breathless with relief.
“Good to hear you have some sense, daft as you are,” he informed her, taking a shuddering breath. “You have a plan? I can’t hold this shield much longer.”
“Ah! Okay—the woods south east are our best chance, I’ve scouted them, they’re reasonably clear—I can get you time enough to cast. What can you do for me in the way of crowd control? The bigger the better.”

He grinned wickedly. Chamera decided that Pan was now her third favorite human. She readied her blade, shifting from foot to foot, every muscle in her body ready to spring into action. Drawing breath into her lungs, she nodded to Pan. The glittering shield parted and she ran with every ounce of power she could manage, releasing a sharp series of distracting whistles, willing dazzling lights to erupt in the square. All she had to do was carve through a small crowd of well-armed psychopaths, rescue a member of the most famously brutal race in Faerun, and escape to woods filled with all manner of monsters, without getting killed or severely maimed. At least there weren’t dragons trying to actively eat her. That was a blessing.

An arrow shattered against the armor on her abdomen, knocking her back and nearly off her feet. She swore, raising her blade to catch another in a parry, arm ringing at the force of impact. Redirecting the blow, she took the opportunity to sprint out of range. Spells were trailing after her, and a glance backwards assured her that Pan hadn’t been killed yet. His shield had constricted nearly to his frame as he cast. She had to turn away, darting aside as she was nearly smacked dead in the face with a heavy wooden shield. The flank allowed her to duck and reach out to raise a line of red in the soft junction behind his knee, between plates of armor.

Chamera sank into the rhythm of battle, all dirty tricks and ruthless desperation. There was no time to be tired. Just a little further, one more foe to fell—

The world exploded in a shower of ice. Chamera was nearly crushed, an icicle from the heavens forcing her into the path of a coming blade. She raised her arm, bracer deflecting the blow from her neck and certain death, but the blade biting through the leather and scales to the flesh of her arm. She fired a scream off blindly, the magic in her throat cracking her voice. Shit. She wasn’t going to be casting anything for a while. The offending Zhent stumbled backwards and was crushed by a boulder of ice nearly twice her size. Chamera squeaked. Scratch that—Pan was the single greatest human in all the realms.

Avoiding the falling ice was a nightmare, but as men and women dropped to the storm and blades and arrows and spells became fewer in number. She sprinted towards where she’d last seen the Drow, giddy with magic and the sheer madness of the battle. She clambered up crates and barrels as quick as she could manage with the gash in her forearm. Finally scrambling atop a roof, she could only gape at the extent of Pan’s magic. The whole damned village was being pelted by ice and snow. Pan was slumped in the road below in a mess of yellow robes and parchment white limbs.

“Shit,” she croaked, her amazement slowly turning to horror. Pan’s magic was destroying the village. In under half an hour, she’d completely blown her cover and ruined a week’s worth of subterfuge and secrets… and then managed to doom the very village she was trying to save. “Silverhand is going to kill me.”

[Alfbie]

There were so many distractions. Waiting for the first Zhentarim guard to scale the wall to the rooftop was wearing off the adrenaline; Jeron's back throbbed with increasing intensity. Lashes were not a light matter. If he didn't do something soon, the pain alone would almost cripple him. But he could not leave without his journal, his single precious item. Brilliant, bright light reflecting off the walls of nearby buildings pulled the half-drow's mind in another direction. What was going on?

Despite the danger of turning his back on his only escape route, Jeron crept to the edge of the rooftop, peering over the side to identify the source of the light. His savior was in the crowd, courageously fighting scores of Zhentarim warriors. He thought it foolish as he held his breath with dread. She would die and it would be his fault. She was supposed to run for cover in reaction to his whistle, hide, sneak, something other than face her death directly in the form of vicious blades and cruel sneers. She would have surely perished, but she was not alone.

A bald man wielded power Jeron had not seen in quite some time, hurling ice spells at his foes with deadly efficiency. It reminded the half-drow of Maura's last moments. She, too, fought courageously against men meant to subdue her at the very least. She, too, had demonstrated tremendous power.

This man's magic combined with his savior's fighting prowess, however, seemed to be a good match. He could tell they had been fighting together for a while; it was as though they could read each other's thoughts. Each seemed to know what the other was going to do and reacted accordingly, thinning the Zhentarim numbers and making it look easy. Jeron, a fan of magic who could only long for such power, dreamed of wielding magic like the man below, to be so intimidating...

He felt a shift in the air, an acute skill he learned from a lifetime of hiding. Instinctually, he rolled, just missing the crushing downward slash of a sword as a Zhentarim guard attacked. Jeron screamed; rolling onto his back was not a good idea, blood staining the rooftop, but he had no time to submit to his body's pain. At once the guard was upon him, his sword seeking the prize of half-Drow flesh and bone. Jeron rolled again, this time tucking his legs under him to crouch, then sprang to the side to avoid another attack.

Jeron knew nothing about fighting, but he was very good at dodging and parrying. With startling agility, he avoided each and every one of the man's attacks through a duck, a bob, a shimmy, a turn, a side-step. Jeron's injuries slowed down his movements; several times he used the dagger he was given to deflect what would be a fatal blow. His arms ached from absorbing his opponent's swings, his wrists felt like they would crack, and his strength was being sapped fast, but if he did not give his all in the defense, he would surely die.

Another guard soon joined the fray, Jeron avoiding attacks in front and behind him. It almost seemed as though he had a sixth sense when it came to evasive combat, forcing his body to move and bend in ways that left him almost breathless with pain. in reality, he had excellent reflexes and had learned to read shadows, reflections off armor, and the gaze of his opponents to know what was going on behind him at a moment's notice. He had lived through so many encounters throughout his life this way; it was a wonder he had not died long ago.

If not for these injuries, he would have slipped away by now. As it was, he could not seem to make a clean getaway... There! Jeron stepped forward, the guard in front of him thrusting accordingly. The half-drow spun to the side, almost astonished that he managed to avoid the attack, and heard the satisfying cry of the other guard behind him impaled by his partner's blade. He did not turn to assess the damage, immediately sprinting for the edge of the rooftop that would lead him to his freedom.

A third Zhentarim guard stepped up before he could make it; Jeron skidded to a halt. This one held fire in his palm, his gaze gleaming with murderous intent. Jeron scooted back, wondering how he was to avoid magic at this state...

...when a giant ice rock slammed against this guard's head. The man was dead before his body hit the ground, the chunk of ice punching a hole through the roof.

Jeron gaped, then jumped as another ice crystal punctured the rooftop only inches from his body. He realized that it was raining ice all around him, villagers and Zhentarim alike running and seeking cover.

The half-drow scrambled for his exit, but he had to veer to the side, jump forward, or double back in order to avoid falling ice. That was when he noticed his savior on the rooftop with him, stealing a split second to assess the damage.

She came back for him! Nobody ever came back for him. Jeron had no time to ponder the implications of this. "The jailhouse!" he shouted, pointing to where his destination was, several rooftops ahead. "I must make it there!"

Finally, he managed to reach the proper edge of the roof. He scrambled down and began to sprint towards the jailhouse, not sure if he preferred dodging deadly chunks of ice to enraged Zhentarim guards. He felt like passing out, his legs heavy as lead, but he pressed on. He had to.

[El Taco Taco]

Chamera was startled out of her reverie by a voice. The Drow—he was running but not with any intent to kill her. Clearly he had made sense of her entirely buggered attempt at rescue, and was (rather wisely) complying. Unfortunately, he was not heading towards the forrest, but rather, deeper into town.

“Wait,” she tried to shout, but the magic had burned her voice to a squeak that disappeared in the roaring of the blizzard. Chamera swore, looked up, and promptly wished she hadn’t. Gods above. Whatever had been done to the Weave, it looked like it was reacting with Pan’s spell. The storm clouds were churning more violently than rivers, sparking fire and ice. The skies looked more akin to the seas of the hells than the heavens. They had to get out of here before things got any worse. With things as bad as they were, she had no desire to stick around and find out what “worse” entailed.
Chamera’s luck ran sour when she jumped off the final crate to the village square, a large ice ball landing close enough to send her sprawling. The cold was worse than the impact. It got inside of her, deep into her core, draining her will. Gods, she hadn’t realized how tired she was. Little crystals were forming on the scales of her armor, stiffening her leathers. It took every ounce of her will to push herself to her feet and run through the chaos to the downed wizard. It would feel so good to just curl up and rest…

Oh Pan, she thought miserably, dropping to her knees. His skin was translucent, almost as if he had been carved from ice himself. His hands kept sparking, a dance of arcane flint. She turned him gently, wincing at the cold lancing through her fingers. Please don’t be dead. Please please please.

Somehow, he didn’t shatter. His body still flexed like flesh, and Gods, she thought she could see life in his eyes. If they survived this, she was giving all her gold to the nearest temple. He shifted beneath her hands, shoulders stirring with the hints of breath. Chamera couldn’t help the crackling laughter that bubbled out of her throat. His eyes were focusing, hands flexing, and though he looked as if he’d been balls deep in a frost giant, he was gloriously alive. He groaned intelligently.

“This is the strangest thing that’s ever happened to me,” he muttered foggily. Chamera’s face hurt from the fierceness of her grin. Gods, he was half dead, and he was still wasting precious energy to snark. She looked up to the storm. Somehow she suspected this magic wasn’t going anywhere. Easing her hands under frosted shoulders, she struggled to help Pan to his feet. He couldn’t stay properly vertical under his own power. A bubble of panic began to rise in her chest. She couldn’t carry him out of here, but neither could she abandon him.

“This is nothing. Did I ever tell you of the tea party I had with a group of hags in Rashemen?” she opted to distract herself with a quip, stringing his arm across her shoulders. She staggered under his weight, desperate prayers running through her brain. Gods, if they were struck by his spell they were both dead. She urged him forward, half dragging his feet, head lolling. He snorted against her shoulder. It wasn’t quick as she would have liked, but he was at least compliant with her directions. It was proof enough for Chamera that he was seriously unwell; Pan was one of the most disagreeable people she had ever met. Without promise of payment, there was little the man could be encouraged to do.

“What kind of tea was it?”
“Black. Calishite, I think. They seasoned it with snake bile. Couldn’t taste anything other than the bile. Probably for the best. I’m pretty sure the pies were made with human meat.”
Speaking was agonizing. The usual lilting melody of her voice had been reduced to a scratchy croak. She’d never burned her voice out with magic before; it was not an experience she ever wanted to relive. But Pan was huffing in laughter as they stumbled their way through the spellfire and that bitter little chuckle gave her hope. He was laughing. He wouldn’t die. He couldn’t. She wouldn’t allow it.

Chamera wasn’t quite sure how they made it to the jailhouse without severe maiming. Pan’s weight across her shoulders was a monstrous thing, and he was all but useless in coordinating his too-long limbs. She had practically dragged him, and the effort was quickly wearing her down. That and the cold. If they escaped, she was going to wrap herself in a hundred blankets and plant herself in front of the warmest hearth she could find. Jaw set into a line, she hefted Pan’s weight more evenly across her shoulders. Her offhand was numb, and she had to visually confirm that she was still armed. Not that she would be able to fight, with the half-dead sorcerer slumped against her, but it made her feel better.

Thunder shattered above them. Chamera jumped, eyeing the swirling vortex in the heavens streaming in through the holes in the roof, sparking with lightning, the glittering snow giving way to a churning inferno.

“That’s bad,” Pan slurred against her shoulder, his pale eyes directed skyward. Chamera agreed. Between the Drow and the storm, however… she suspected the fire and ice in the black heavens were rather less dangerous.

Possessing a character flaw that drew her towards danger, she shifted Pan’s weight across her shoulders and approached the searching dark elf. She would have done unholy things to have even one large friend in armor with her right now. Chamera swallowed, winced. Her water skein was in her bag of holding. She had no desire to touch the Weave again.

“We need to go,” she tried to shout, voice cracking. Ugh. She sounded like a boy on the cusp of manhood, not at all like a seasoned adventurer. Pan was snickering, the bastard. Chamera wasn’t above elbowing his ribs. “The woods south-east are our best chance at surviving.”

[Alfbie]

Jeron held his breath and stopped just inside the jail cell, keeping close to the shadows. He could hear a few people inside -- prisoners, as he recognized their voices -- shouting in alarm. He strained to hear the sound of booted footsteps over the pulse of his racing heart. His lungs ached in yearning to breathe; he had been running. His instinct screamed at him to turn around and head for the forest. Being here frightened him, being here was suicide... he might as well walk calmly back to his cell, lock himself inside, and wait to die.

He squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth, but did not move, did not even turn around. He couldn't, not now. He was already here.

Thunder rumbled from above; it was enough to make the building tremble. The shouts subdued to anxious murmuring. Still, he heard no sign of a guard.

Cautiously, making not a sound, Jeron slipped into the single corridor of this small jailhouse, bars lining either side, and an open door at the other side leading into a small, darkened room. All of the lanterns were burnt out, but the light from outside was more than enough for Jeron to see. Being able to make his way around in the dark was perhaps one of the few things about the Drow side of him that he appreciated. Because of this ability, he could clearly see that there was no danger here.

One of the guards lay dead at the hallway, pinned to the floor by a giant ice crystal that had punched through the roof and crushed him. Arms closest to this body stuck out from between iron bars, hands struggling to grab at the guard's clothes, to drag him close to get at his keys. Other prisoners were injured from the impact of the ice crystals piercing through into their cells. Some agonized on their cots in pain, others ignored broken bones the best they could to try to escape through the holes that were made on the ceiling. Several cells were empty; when Jeron was dragged away, this house was full. The other guards, therefore, must be out hunting down those that escaped.

Slowly, he crept down the hallway, stepping over the body, not bothering to help his fellow prisoners to escape. Some of these men were locked up for very justifiable reasons; he had no interest in making his situation worse.

The small room at the other side of the jailhouse was empty. It housed a simple wooden table and chairs, several chests against the corners, and many hooks lining the walls, holding up an assortment of things. This space was cluttered with junk -- weapons, armor, clothes, various odds-and-ends, most things from prisoners, some from the guards. A game of cards had been forgotten, a mug of ale untouched. Jeron ignored most of these things, at once sifting through the items.

He found his clothes first, grateful to slide into his sturdy pair of black trousers and his worn leather boots. Just looking at his tunic and cowl was agonizing; his back would never allow it, yet he yearned for the security of covering his body in its entirety. Instead, he found his knapsack, empty, and one by one reclaimed his possessions, few in number. A knife. A ball of twine. A tin cup. A wooden bowl. An empty flask. A candle, snapped in half. His quill, also broken, no sign of the ink bottle. All of his herbs were gone; every so often he would sell these for money, but he mostly used them for himself. Also gone were the various potions he managed to scrounge up, but he did find the scroll he managed to find in the ruins of Elminster's tower. He remembered how disappointed he was to find that the wizard clearly no longer lived there, and annoyed that the ruins had so obviously been picked through multiple times of all of its possessions. Yet somehow every robber, looter, and scavenger had not found this scroll, the edges perfectly smooth, not even the tiniest smudge of dirt against the paper, the wax seal still intact, as though someone had just sealed a fresh letter. Jeron never had a chance to open the scroll. Apparently, no one else had either.

More important than finding the scroll, however, was finding the one thing that had kept him here this long, the one thing that had stopped him from running for safety in the woods. Tears stung his eyes as he carefully picked up his journal. The leather was starting to fray at the corners, the page edges a bit dirt-smudged and crinkled. He flipped through the book to make sure every page was there. Small, elegant writing, his writing, covered each page, accompanied by pictures that he drew himself. His entire life was in this book -- the careful notes he took on identifying herbs were here as were the various maps of the world and sketches of the places he had been, and every smattering of information on magic he could gather in his travels was accounted for. Most importantly, however, was the portrait he drew of Maura. He was a skilled sketcher, able to mimic the human girl's smile and kind eyes with great detail. It was the only thing of her he had.

Carefully, he added his journal to his bag, then almost shouted with relief in finding a half-empty vial of healing potion. He drained this greedily, knowing it would not be enough to seal his wounds completely, but it would at least be enough for him to leave this wretched town without passing out... if he could survive the storm. Carefully, he tugged on his long-sleeved tunic, wincing at the pain. It hurt, and he could feel the fabric stick to his back, but felt calmer finally being able to cover his dark skin. He found his gloves and slid them on, then draped the cowl over his shoulders, being sure to pull up the hood over his head. All of his clothing was dark, but none of it matched -- fashion was never a priority for him.

Concealing himself entirely was like lifting a fog from his mind. Jeron was better able to focus, realizing that he had been here far too long. He found his dirk and his shortsword, dull and knicked items but trustworthy enough, and fastened them to the belt that had never been removed from his pants. Then he turned just in time to see his savior stagger into the jailhouse, a pale figure of a man leaning heavily against her. This stirred up a commotion from the prisoners still trapped as the thunder rolled ominously outside. She croaked at him, and the injured man let out something in between a cackle and a wheeze.

Jeron said not a word as he slung his bag over his shoulder, and nearly collapsed from the pain of it bumping against his back. That bit of potion hadn't been nearly enough. He leaned against the doorway to catch his breath, letting the pain subside, then began a brisk walk down the corridor, not bothering to slink in the shadows this time.

He paused beside the pair, glancing at the man, his expression hidden behind the shadow his cowl cast over his face. "Leave him," he said softly, cautiously; he was not used to talking to people. "He will slow you down and you will both die."

[El Taco Taco]

The elf approached and she instinctively placed her blade between them. Sure, she had just [s]stupidly[/i] broken him out of his public execution, but it wouldn’t be the first time she had rescued someone and then had them turn on her. Not that she could fight properly. Not with Pan like this. Pan was mumbling into the crook of her neck, a slurry of words she couldn’t even begin to translate. He was sagging against her, drifting off to sleep. She elbowed his ribs again. Chamera was no healer, but she knew enough that she needed to keep him awake.

The jailhouse echoed with shouts and cries. Chamera winced as she scanned her surroundings. To her right, a prisoner had been cleaved in two by an icicle the size of a cow. Several cells had been broken open, grey ribbon of light streaming in through the wounds in the ceiling. A guard, either Zhent or Dalesman she wasn’t sure, was pinned to the shattered wooden floor. The stench of death was thick in the air, all copper and bile. Shouts echoed from every corner, pleas and jeers blending into one another. Another boulder of ice smashed through the roof dead ahead, crushing an empty table. Someone began to scream. The wail of terror pierced through her armor down to her very core, resonating in her bones. Chamera tried not to panic.

The elf had equipped himself. She’d hoped for heavy plate and a towering shield. No such luck; instead, he wore cloth and a cowl that shadowed his face. Shit. Where was a good fleshy meat shield when a woman needed one? Likely dead, after the stunt you just pulled. Chamera winced. This was not one of her better daring rescues.

“Leave him. He will slow you down and you will both die.”

Chamera blinked intelligently. The sheer callousness of his words was unbelievable; the stupidity was almost laughable. Pan’s mumbling was indecipherable, but his tone had darkened. Chamera was rather offended. Did Pan think she would abandon him so easily? Probably. Without the promise of payment, Pan would have fled long ago. But she was not Pan. She didn’t leave friends behind. No matter the cost.

“And the odds are good that I’ll die later if I abandon him now,” she snapped, planting her feet more firmly. With a deep breath, she shifted Pan’s weight more favorably across her shoulders. What she wouldn’t do for a proper healer right now. “Not to mention the whole ‘horrible torturous death’ I’d be dooming him to. He’s coming—and you’ll be helping. You owe me at least that.”

Pan made an irritated sound. Chamera ignored him, swallowing the sting in her throat. Gods, she needed water. It felt as if someone had shoved a red hot iron down her throat. She was familiar enough with the sensation to hazard a guess as to what that would feel like. Focus. She could complain about all her aches and pains later.

“The woods,” Chamera tossed a bloodied braid out of her face with a sharp jerk of her head. It smacked against Pan’s bald head, streaking dull red against his pale features. “Whatever they did to the Weave, I think it’s focused on the town. There are minimal patrols in the woods south of Harpers’ Hill. If we reach the forrest, fortune may smile on us yet.”

“Your Laaaddyy'ss fortune isss—“ Pan mumbled. Chamera elbowed him again, a little more viciously this time. He cried out in pain. She almost felt guilty.

“Now is not the time for blasphemy, Pan,” she hissed, a note of panic creeping into her voice. Pan lapsed into silence. She could only pray the Lady would not take offence to her faithless companion. Or the Drow. She turned her gaze on him, breathing deep to steel herself.

[Alfbie]

Jeron had already taken a step to leave by the time his savior responded. Frankly, he didn't care how she responded. All that was on his mind was getting out of here before this abominable hail storm ceased and the Zhentarim returned. He was not an elf with manners or tact; he hadn't the chance to learn about social etiquette, further hampered by the fact that he had grown up learning how to avoid people instead of interacting with them. True, he had interacted and befriended Maura when they were children, but that was years ago. In a sense, his friendship with her had preserved his humanity and had given him enough confidence to speak when spoken to, to offer his opinion, and to know when his opinion wasn't valued... like now.

He whirled around to face the pair again, not caring if his sudden movement was probably a bad idea against a woman with a sword who firmly looked upon him as though he was a monster. "I don't owe you anything!" he spat back. "You chose to help me without prompt! I did not beg, plead, or do anything to signal that you should help me, not even as you cut away my bonds, but regardless, you..."

Jeron trailed off. Why did she help him anyway? From the way she kept her sword between them and from the tension in her expression, she was terrified of him.

Another agonized scream followed a shuddering crash as more ice plummeted into the jailhouse. Upon speculation, all of this was linked to his savior freeing him. Her actions didn't make the least bit of sense. Why go through all the trouble to help him? There had to be some ulterior motive to this. Perhaps someone was paying bounty hunters a hefty reward to bring back the heads of Drow. They would lead him into the woods, away from the Zhentarim, and claim their kill as their own. This was undoubtedly a trap. Anyone with sense would simply turn and go.

Jeron lingered, however, due to another reason...

Magic had always fascinated him. Though being nomadic was an act of survival, seeking magic gave his travels a purpose. He learned a little about magic from Maura, and her death branded in him the desire to learn more. He needed power to avenge her death, craved it to finally be in control of his life, to no longer live in fear....

The problem was that his visage prevented him from finding a suitable instructor. Anyone with any magical know-how would likely fling a fireball in his face before pausing to hear his plea to learn. Stealing books was dangerous. All that he knew came from observing practitioners at a distance, which didn't yield many results. He had traveled here in hopes that he could glean something from watching the renowned Elminster, and had been immensely disappointed to find no trace of him and his home in ruins.

As terrifying as this current hailstorm was, it was undeniably powerful. This woman or the man she was trying to save could teach him this power. Though the conversation was tense and not at all pleasant, it was still a conversation, which was more than he had gotten from anyone without violent, physical lash-back in several years. What if these people weren't bounty hunters? What if, for whatever unfathomable reason, this woman decided to help him because she somehow knew he was not a danger to anyone? Not yet, at least.... This was the closest chance he'd have of obtaining a mentor that he would ever get. Despite the risks, he had to see this through, had to hope that he could at least walk away from the Dalelands with some progress in his studies. Without hope, there was no reason to live with so much cruelty in this world.

"Fine, I will help both of you escape," he remarked curtly, "if you will teach me what you know about your power. I am in need of instruction about the Weave and you could help me with this. If you decline, you will never see me again. Considering the situation, it would be unwise to refuse."

[El Taco Taco]

He wheeled on her; if she hadn’t been holding Pan, she might have run him through on instinct. He looked ready to flay her. Normally, she would have answered his snarl with a quip and an apology, but she had no time to smooth things over. The storm was worsening and every moment they stood still was another chance to die. If she was to survive—and Chamera very dearly wanted to keep living—she couldn’t do it alone. Not with her arm wounded and her voice lost.

There was another scream. Chamera flinched, all too aware of her guilt. She was leaving these men and women to die. They might be criminals (or worse, enemies of the Zhents and good people), but they didn’t deserve this. It was wrong. She wanted nothing more than to grab the keys and open every cell, but there wasn’t time. All she could do was pray and run.

“Look,” she began, but he interrupted her with assent. Chamera bit her tongue promptly. She wasn’t going to run the risk of him changing his mind. She didn’t know if she could even trust his promise. But her eyes were sharp, and there was something like hunger in his shadowed face. Magic for their lives? It was a fair trade. Pan snored into her neck, his icy breath stinging. She’d convince Pan of the bargain later, if he ever woke again. Chamera nodded.

“Deal. Let’s go,” she sheathed her blade in the holster tucked into her boot. She slipped her shoulder out from beneath Pan, rotating the joint in a quick stretch. Slipping beneath him, she rose in a smooth motion, his unconscious frame strewn across her shoulders. She’d carried many a drunken companion like this, but never across a battlefield. A hailstone dropped around two meters ahead of her, shattering into a spray of icy debris. Eyes stinging in the cold, she steeled herself and began to run. She wasn’t able to flit nearly as gracefully, but it was easier to move without Pan’s legs tripping her up.

There was no time to keep the drow in her sights. Dodging the streaming ice demanded every ounce of her attention. There was a great roar and a wave of heat. The fire in the sky had touched earth, swirling in a violent vortex in the square. People were screaming, the funnel of flames wandering towards them. Chamera dug deep for the energy to run faster, fueling her legs with terror and grit. The square gave way to ruined fields, livestock fleeing in panic, a harvest in shambles all around her. Chamera stumbled, swearing in every language she knew, the forrest just ahead. Gods be good, she might actually pull this off.

[Alfbie]

She actually said yes. Jeron's savior, the woman who looked ready to skewer him with her sword, had actually agreed to his bargain. For a fleeting moment, Jeron's eyes actually widened with astonishment, his lips parting with disbelief. Never had any such interaction with anyone ever gone so smoothly; he had fully expected her to say no. Of course, the situation couldn't have been more ideal; it was essentially accept his offer or die trying to leave this place alone. He'd worry about how guilty he should or should not feel about trapping her in such a situation later.

Jeron had expected to bear part of the man's weight, but the woman surprised him when she shifted the man's weight more squarely on her back and moved with surprising swiftness out the door. So she was stronger than she looked. No doubt she had the capability to kill him if she wanted to. He'd think about that later as well.

For now, he followed her into chaos, the likes of which he had never seen. Ice drummed against Jeron's head, hammered against his back and arms, a persistent, stinging pain. The dark line of the forest's edge almost seemed to beckon him; all he had to do was muster enough strength to sprint but for a moment. However, he had promised that he would help this woman, so he remained at her side. At best she could only manage a jog; she bore too much weight on her back to move any faster. A quick glance around verified that no Zhentarim, or anyone else for that matter, was following them; this ice storm was proving an effective distraction. If not for the danger of the ice, they very well could stroll into the woods without incident.

As the chill nipped at Jeron's cheeks, he could feel heat radiating against his back. Red-hot light descended, illuminating the town. Jeron glanced behind him to see a massive swirl of fire engulf every building and tree behind them, all consumed to ashes in its wake. He could hear the screams of the townsfolk, could see figures shifting erratically through the flames. He looked away, facing forward, as an image of his human mother flashed across his mind. He had found their little hut burned to its frame, and his mother, who had been caught in the blaze... He had mourned her death, sobbed for her, even though his last memory of her alive was when she looked away, silent, while the village guards had taken him...

Jeron gritted his teeth, allowing the fear to block out the memories and block out the pain. The vortex of fire swelled towards them; he could feel the heat against his back intensify. They were moving too slow.

The woman stumbled. Without thinking, Jeron grabbed one of the man's arms, slinging it around his shoulders as he shifted some of his weight on him. With this man's weight evenly distributed between Jeron and his savior, they moved much faster, almost in sync, fear and desperation driving them forward. Jeron could see flames curl around them, could feel the heat lick at his heels...

They broke through the treeline of the forest, the air cooling around them at once, the intense light dimming to a mild summer evening glow. The forest seemed immune to the fire, not a single leaf singed. A quick glance behind and beside Jeron verified that the man and woman accompanying him were not on fire, though the man's clothes were a little singed. If the hailstorm hadn't soaked them, their outcome may have been different.

Jeron did not stop. "We keep moving," he gasped, completely out of breath, every muscle on fire from the effort to keep in motion. His back throbbed like a hundred scraping daggers from the way his pack and the man's weight chaffed against his wounds. His legs felt like jelly but weighed as though they were lead, and his side still throbbed. His savior was also wounded, and Jeron was not sure if the man they carried would survive the night. Still, he pressed on, locking his eyes at the shadowed forest ahead. "We stay off the paths," he insisted, "we move until nightfall. We need to get as far away from this place as we can." The further away from the anguished wails of Shadowdale they could go, the better.

[El Taco Taco]

They ran. His strides were longer than hers, forcing her to match his pace. Pan was strung between them, his legs occasionally dragging along the black earth. Her shoulder was numb where she supported the unconscious sorcerer. The Drow was sure footed in the shadows-- but, knowing the stories, that shouldn't have surprised her. It was proving more and more difficult for her to see, even with her keen eyesight. It was as if the woods had been covered in pitch. It had been barely noon in the village, but here in the heart of the woods, it might as well have been midnight. There was no sun to guide her, and she could only pray they were still heading south. South was freedom-- if they could get to the Moonsea Ride, she could get them to Cormyr. If she could get to Suzail, she could find her fellow Harpers, send word to Everlund, and begin calling on old favors. They just had to survive the woods. And the road, plagued by bandits and all sorts of beasties... Chamera winced. One thing at a time.

She could barely breathe. Pan was too heavy, his body too cold for her to carry any longer. She coughed, trying to find words in her exhaustion.

"I can't--" she sputtered, losing precious air to speech. Her everything hurt, every muscle screaming, the curl of magic in her breast like a knife jostling with every footstep. She tried to slow the brutal pace, stumbling on a root. She spat an orcish curse reflexively, tried not to drag them all down with her as she staggered. Pan was silent and cold and she was terrified he had already died. Gods, she couldn't let him die. Pan was selfish and cruel but he was her friend and he'd saved her life. It was imperative he live. She couldn't bear another life on her conscience. "I can't keep this pace."

Chamera had no idea how long they had been running, but she knew her limits. She forced a stop, choking for breath, easing Pan against a tree. Pulling her glove off with her teeth, she searched desperately for his pulse. It was thready and shallow in his nearly translucent skin, but she choked out a laugh when she found it, dropping her forehead to his. It stung to touch him but gods, he might just survive this. Her hands shook as she pulled away, digging for the bag strapped to her hip. Her arm sunk into it to the elbow, scrabbling for a waterskin in the pocket dimension. The magic of the bag did not spark-- the damage to the Weave must have been localized to the village. Chamera withdrew the oiled canvas, drinking around shuddering breaths. She needed to patch up her arm soon, lest it become infected.

Chamera forced herself up, all too aware of the danger of stiffness. The woods were still around them. Chamera cast a wary gaze around them. She knew the stories of these woods from first hand experience-- the last time she had traveled through this forrest, she had been poisoned by a spider the size of a horse. She had no desire to repeat that experience. Not without a proper healer, at least.

She turned her hazel eyes on the Drow, hesitating for a long moment. He had yet to try and kill her. He'd saved her life-- and he wanted magic from them. She had to trust that, until he got what he wanted, he would not sink a blade into her throat. Taking a steadying breath, Chamera offered him her waterskin.

"Drink what you need. I have more in my pack," she remarked as evenly as she could manage, her voice less ravaged.

[Alfbie]

If Jeron had his way, they would have never stopped; he wanted to put as much distance between himself and that wretched town as he could. They had moved a fair distance at a fair pace for a good amount of time, all things considering, but fear still had a hold on Jeron's reasoning, though it also kept away the majority of the fatigue he would surely feel otherwise.

Finally, his savior collapsed, protesting her inability to take another step. Jeron cursed under his breath as he allowed the barely-alive human man to slip from his shoulder. "They will find us," he hissed anxiously as he glanced around, every shifting shadow in this forest a potential threat. The human man, however, looked like he would not be able to withstand another step of travel and the girl looked like she would faint from exhaustion. Jeron, too, was in no better shape, as much as he hated to accept it. Agonizing pain still saturated his body, his limbs heavy from a lack of energy. They had no choice but to rest here; he just hoped they were secluded enough to be out of danger for a little while.

While the girl tended to her friend, Jeron shifted his focus on other things. Muttering to himself, he began to pace around the area, peering at the ground as he pushed back ferns, bush branches, and blades of grass as though looking for something. Methodically, he began to pull weeds. Stuffing these in his limited-sized bag, he then moved to the trees, deftly pulling moss from some of the bark. Mushrooms he chose carefully, examining them by color, touch, and smell before adding them to his growing supply of foliage. All of this he did quickly, efficiently, clearly a skilled herbalist. He didn't have enough magical skill to make useful potions, but he knew enough about herbal remedies to know what plants were considered useful in this area. They needed to rest, they needed to heal, and they needed nourishment.

He paused when he caught the girl hold something out to him out of the corner of his eye. He glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the flask of water with yearning and suspicion before his gaze shifted to her face. Where did she get an item so large? He didn't remember her carrying a flask before.... Furthermore, why was she offering it to him? No one dared to share with a Drow, even a half-drow such as himself.

His body's weakened state made it impossible to refuse the water, however. He snatched the flask from her while firmly reminding himself that it was not bait, she was not going to trick him into danger, and that there was no reason to be so hasty.

He took only a few mouthfuls, though he felt as though he could easily drain the entire flask, then handed it back to her without looking her in the eye. He just didn't feel right drinking all of her water; he could find his own well enough.

Instead of offering her his thanks, he resumed his foraging. "Do you have the skill to protect this area with wards or... something?" he asked as he began to gather sticks and twigs for firewood. Normally, he would try to avoid building a fire as it drew unwanted attention, but he doubted his savior's companion would survive the night without the warmth of a campfire... if at all. Jeron wished he could simply climb up a tree and forget they existed for a while, but he had made an agreement. If he was going to learn magic from these two, he had to make sure they all survived. One of many reasons why groups were so bothersome.

[El Taco Taco]

Chamera crossed her legs, offhandedly unbuckling her belt and sheaths, fingers stumbling across the buckles. She dropped the leather beside her ruined bracer on the earth, shifting her weight more comfortably. Gently placing the wounded arm across her lap, she’d been about to wind the arm when the Drow spoke. It was a simple statement. Chamera turned her gaze on him, digging through a small bag. She considered the wound again, flexing the fingers on her left hand and gritting her teeth at the ache. Gods above, she was lucky it hadn’t hit bone. She needed her sword arm if she was to survive. “Will it?” She wondered, a touch of worry in her voice. She chuckled weakly, shaking her head. “I’m useless at healing. I’ve always been better at stabbing than being stabbed.” He was chewing on a weed, and Chamera eyed it curiously. Despite her years traveling, she was no woodsman. She’d never braved the wilds on her own. There had always been someone else to track the woods and gather healing herbs. Valyriathenniel had found her ignorance highly amusing, as if their elven father’s blood would have given Chamera an intuitive understanding of woods and dirt. It was ridiculous; she had grown up in the largest city in Amn, sneaking around sewers, working in the tavern, and pickpocketing through the market. Let the elfy elves have the woods. She vastly preferred the bustle of civilization. He gave her his name, although he seemed reluctant. He spoke of the Dale and his unfortunate journey through the land. He’d said something curious. A wizard? Elminster, perhaps? It had to be. Elminster’s Tower was a paradise for enterprising thieves. Chamera hadn’t bothered with the place. Any treasures that might remain after a few hundred years of neglect wouldn’t be worth the wizard’s wrath when she returned to Everlund. “You’re half, then? I wouldn’t have guessed.” She queried, surprised, head tilting in question. She’d had no idea. Now that she studied him in the firelight, it made sense. His ears weren’t quite as exaggerated, his features less angular and, in all her years, she’d never met an elf with the beginnings of a beard. “I haven’t met many other half elves.” Certainly not Half-Drow, she mused. How unfortunate. No one would really mind the human distinction, would likely treat him just as poorly as the infamous dark elves. Hells, she’d been fooled herself. She’d never even thought of the existence of Half Drow, although she supposed it was no less possible than the union of her Sun Elf father and human mother. He offered the pulp in his hand, apparently a healing agent of some sorts. Chamera considered it for a breath, before offering her wounded arm. “I would appreciate the help,” she grimaced a bit, clenching her fist against the dull ache. “Thank you.”

[Alfbie]

Jeron sighed. The entire time Chamera had been scrutinizing him, he wished he could crawl into a hole, or climb up a tree, or go somewhere so as to not be stared at. Like with most social gestures, staring typically did not mean anything positive to Jeron, so he felt uneasy with her eyes on him. He tugged at his hood with his free hand, wishing he had a means to conceal his face completely. He thought himself ugly and knew others viewed him a monster. In fact, the only one who had never minded his looks was Maura.... Jeron moved cautiously by Chamera's side, dropping to a crouch in front of her. He took her arm, holding it delicately by the wrist. What was he doing anyway? Since when did he help another in this way? His gaze flickered up to her face for a moment, panic in his brown eyes, and he almost let her go, almost retreated back to his original spot by the fire. He gulped, inwardly clinging to his nerve, and forced himself to look back down at Chamera's arm. If he couldn't get through this simple task, how was he ever going to learn magic from her? He needed to focus. He frowned, realizing that Chamera's wound wasn't really that deep at all, and then scowled upon knowing that he had put himself unnecessarily in this dreadfully awkward situation. He was already in this nonsense of being nice to someone; he might as well follow through. "This will sting," he muttered dryly. "It is a disinfectant, not a healant, so you should wash it off in a day, especially since I didn't use water to grind this down." Unceremoniously, he pressed the goop of chewed plant on Chamera's arm and began to smear it across the wound with his gloved fingers. He tried his best to work quickly, not wanting to hold her arm any longer than necessary. He did not seem to notice how his hands trembled, though slightly, while helping her. Chamera had remarked on not meeting many other half elves. Jeron wanted to stare, to observe the physical evidence of her claim himself, but he didn't want to be caught staring. He had always observed others from a distance, safely concealed, and he wished he could do so now. Instead, he took in snatches of detail from an occasionally flickering gaze. She dressed human, looked human... Ah, but the ears always gave it away. He wondered what happened with her left ear, but pretended not to notice. And the slight slant of the eyes... Jeron was careful not to make direct eye contact, though he was fascinated by the color of her eyes. "I've... never met many other half elves either," he admitted when he dropped his gaze a last time, noting other scars on her skin. This sparked his curiosity; was she also a pariah to others? He wanted to ask, surprising himself with how excited he was at the notion of possibly meeting a kindred spirit of sorts, but he kept that excitement subdued under a persisting scowl, killing the thought before it could form into audible questions. Of course she wasn't. "You're not half drow," he blurted out, and inwardly scolded himself for making such a thoughtless, obvious statement. Jeron let go of Chamera's arm, returning briskly to his spot by the fire. He didn't bother asking if she had other wounds that needed tending to, feeling relieved just to gain this few feet of space between them. "What I meant to say is that... well, it's just... the circumstances with your parents... they must have been..." He released a heavy sigh, not sure how to politely ask what she was half of. He hated social etiquette. He grabbed his bag, rummaging through the foliage he had gathered, determined to find a way to distract himself from his foolishness.

[El Taco Taco]

Chamera grit her teeth, but she couldn’t help the hiss of discomfort when the herb touched the wound. Pathetic, she berated herself. This was hardly the worst wound she’d managed over the years. But when her fingers had been painstakingly reattached and her ear sewn together, her healer had possessed the blessing of the crying god. She must have numbed the agony. Chamera could barely remember the process, only that it had taken many hours and she had been unable to grip a blade for weeks. He raised a valid point. She’d had a much easier time of things; most humans never even noticed the flare of her ears. Her elvish was decent, but she'd never sound properly elven. Valyriathenniel had spent many nights working on her accent by firelight, teaching her the intricacies of the language. Her sister had refused to be married in human tongues. She had not been the sort of woman to be denied. Chamera’s lips quirked at the thought. At the time, she had found the woman’s imperious nature to be aggravating; what she wouldn’t give to be commanded once again. “No, I’m not,” she commented evenly, flexing her arm as he released it, murmuring her thanks. He pulled away, clearly discomforted by touching her. Chamera couldn’t blame him. Only hours before he’d faced death by torture. She should have been more considerate. She began to wind her arm with crisp bandages, eyes focused on her work. “I imagine my experience has been rather easier than yours. My father, he’s your run of the mill Sun-elf; arrogant, demanding, vain, and obsessed with the tales of Myth Drannor. He’s a good man at heart, but being raised to think that he is the pinnacle of Faerȗn’s races did him no favors. I don’t think he could tolerate my mother’s abuse of his ego.” She scoffed derisively, tossing her hair out of her face as she looked to Jeron. “The first time I met him, he accused me of lying. I didn’t look enough like my sister, you see, and his bastard ought to pass for elven. What a complete arse. Incredible warrior though; I’ve never seen anyone handle a sword like him. He recruited me into the Harpers. I’m much obliged but, still, arse.” She’d been talking too much, she realized. Chamera twisted, looking to Pan. She wasn’t sure what she should do with him—but the steady rise and fall of his chest was at least an encouraging sight.

[Alfbie]

It was strange to have a normal conversation with someone. Jeron stared, listening intently, taking it all in with a slight, eager nod of his head at all the right moments. Though he didn't say much himself, he liked feeling included in something docile and ordinary. "I've... never met my father," Jeron said quietly, "nor do I want to. Mother liked to remind me often of the wrong he did by her. I know nothing of him except for a name." He left the conversation at that. His mother never talked about his Drow father unless she was drunk, then he was the only thing on her mind. They hadn't been lovers, hadn't been friends, hadn't even known each other; it was a wonder Jeron's mother had been allowed to live at all. Jeron remembered being fascinated by Maura's stories of her parents who got along with each other far better. Jeron turned his attention to Pan just as Chamera did, wondering if the human would survive the night. He was an herbalist but not a physician. Idly, he thought of what he could mix or grind together to ease a fever if he had one or to help him sleep or to wake him up... "What happened to him anyway?" he asked. "Something to do with his magic?" He peered through the darkness at the man, feeling himself scowl anew at just the sight of him. Jeron had not gotten a good impression from the man while he was conscious and suspected that he should stay on his guard in case Pan woke up. Jeron felt perfectly content to leave him as he was and hoped he stayed that way for a while.

[El Taco Taco]

Chamera could piece together the likely story from his scant descriptions. Drow weren’t known for taking human lovers—but their brutality was known even as far south as Amn. As a little girl, she’d heard stories about the dark elves, meant to frighten her into behaving. It had been a futile effort. She’d lacked the sense to be truly afraid of anything. Jeron asked about Pan. Her stomach clenched, as if she had eaten tanglefoot. Her hand automatically moved for the coin in her braid—but her holy symbol had been lost with her cloak. Her fingers dropped to her lap. “The Zhents did something to the Weave. Hid runes and symbols all over the village. I think some of them are Infernal? I’m not an expert on the languages of the Hells. Whatever they did, it’s like…” she frowned, considering her words. “It was like touching the Weave was tainting it. It was difficult to control. And Pan, he’s not some wizard locked up in his tower, poring over books to learn magic. He’s a natural. As long as I’ve known him, he’s always had a spell at his fingertips. Asking him not to cast would be like asking him not to breathe. He drew deep for that blizzard—I suspect it got away from him.” Chamera returned her gaze to the fire, sweeping her bloodied hair out of her face. She was going to need to set up camp soon, before the ache set into her bones. She breathed a deep, shuddering breath. He’ll live. He will. She lifted her pouch from her discarded belt, fiddling with the buckle. Her probing hand plunged into the pocket dimension as she rose to her feet. Tent, bedroll, blanket, food—these were fine distractions from the guilt gnawing at the back of her mind.