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 [I]green[/I] 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 [i]stories[/i] 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 [i]careful[/i] 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 [i]time[/i] 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 [i]something[/i] 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 [i]watch[/i], 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.

[i]Lady, I’m about to do something incredibly daft. May your dice fall lucky.[/i]
 
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 [i]burned[/i]. 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. [i]Shit[/i]. 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 [i]away[/i] 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.