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...

[i]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...[/i]

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 [i]thud[/i] 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 [i]him[/i] killing [i]her[/i]?! 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...