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 [i]one[/i] 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. [i]The woods[/i], she thought desperately, [i]I just have to reach the woods[/i].

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 [i]hells[/i] 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 [i]go[/i], 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, [i]waiting[/i]. 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 [i]Harper[/i]? Damn it woman, do you have [i]any[/i] 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[i] some [/i]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 [i]village[/i] 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.”