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 [i]not[/i] 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 [i]reacting[/i] 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… 

[i]Oh Pan,[/i] 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. [i]Please don’t be dead. Please please please.[/i]

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 [i]alive[/i]. 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 [i]anywhere[/i]. 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 [i]towards[/i] 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.”