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 [i]had[/i] to.