Jeron held his breath and stopped just inside the jail cell, keeping close to the shadows. He could hear a few people inside -- prisoners, as he recognized their voices -- shouting in alarm. He strained to hear the sound of booted footsteps over the pulse of his racing heart. His lungs ached in yearning to breathe; he had been running. His instinct screamed at him to turn around and head for the forest. Being here frightened him, being here was suicide... he might as well walk calmly back to his cell, lock himself inside, and wait to die.

He squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth, but did not move, did not even turn around. He couldn't, not now. He was already here.

Thunder rumbled from above; it was enough to make the building tremble. The shouts subdued to anxious murmuring. Still, he heard no sign of a guard.

Cautiously, making not a sound, Jeron slipped into the single corridor of this small jailhouse, bars lining either side, and an open door at the other side leading into a small, darkened room. All of the lanterns were burnt out, but the light from outside was more than enough for Jeron to see. Being able to make his way around in the dark was perhaps one of the few things about the Drow side of him that he appreciated. Because of this ability, he could clearly see that there was no danger here.

One of the guards lay dead at the hallway, pinned to the floor by a giant ice crystal that had punched through the roof and crushed him. Arms closest to this body stuck out from between iron bars, hands struggling to grab at the guard's clothes, to drag him close to get at his keys. Other prisoners were injured from the impact of the ice crystals piercing through into their cells. Some agonized on their cots in pain, others ignored broken bones the best they could to try to escape through the holes that were made on the ceiling. Several cells were empty; when Jeron was dragged away, this house was full. The other guards, therefore, must be out hunting down those that escaped.

Slowly, he crept down the hallway, stepping over the body, not bothering to help his fellow prisoners to escape. Some of these men were locked up for very justifiable reasons; he had no interest in making his situation worse.

The small room at the other side of the jailhouse was empty. It housed a simple wooden table and chairs, several chests against the corners, and many hooks lining the walls, holding up an assortment of things. This space was cluttered with junk -- weapons, armor, clothes, various odds-and-ends, most things from prisoners, some from the guards. A game of cards had been forgotten, a mug of ale untouched. Jeron ignored most of these things, at once sifting through the items. 

He found his clothes first, grateful to slide into his sturdy pair of black trousers and his worn leather boots. Just looking at his tunic and cowl was agonizing; his back would never allow it, yet he yearned for the security of covering his body in its entirety. Instead, he found his knapsack, empty, and one by one reclaimed his possessions, few in number. A knife. A ball of twine. A tin cup. A wooden bowl. An empty flask. A candle, snapped in half. His quill, also broken, no sign of the ink bottle. All of his herbs were gone; every so often he would sell these for money, but he mostly used them for himself. Also gone were the various potions he managed to scrounge up, but he did find the scroll he managed to find in the ruins of Elminster's tower. He remembered how disappointed he was to find that the wizard clearly no longer lived there, and annoyed that the ruins had so obviously been picked through multiple times of all of its possessions. Yet somehow every robber, looter, and scavenger had not found this scroll, the edges perfectly smooth, not even the tiniest smudge of dirt against the paper, the wax seal still intact, as though someone had just sealed a fresh letter. Jeron never had a chance to open the scroll. Apparently, no one else had either.

More important than finding the scroll, however, was finding the one thing that had kept him here this long, the one thing that had stopped him from running for safety in the woods. Tears stung his eyes as he carefully picked up his journal. The leather was starting to fray at the corners, the page edges a bit dirt-smudged and crinkled. He flipped through the book to make sure every page was there. Small, elegant writing, his writing, covered each page, accompanied by pictures that he drew himself. His entire life was in this book -- the careful notes he took on identifying herbs were here as were the various maps of the world and sketches of the places he had been, and every smattering of information on magic he could gather in his travels was accounted for. Most importantly, however, was the portrait he drew of Maura. He was a skilled sketcher, able to mimic the human girl's smile and kind eyes with great detail. It was the only thing of her he had. 

Carefully, he added his journal to his bag, then almost shouted with relief in finding a half-empty vial of healing potion. He drained this greedily, knowing it would not be enough to seal his wounds completely, but it would at least be enough for him to leave this wretched town without passing out... if he could survive the storm. Carefully, he tugged on his long-sleeved tunic, wincing at the pain. It hurt, and he could feel the fabric stick to his back, but felt calmer finally being able to cover his dark skin. He found his gloves and slid them on, then draped the cowl over his shoulders, being sure to pull up the hood over his head. All of his clothing was dark, but none of it matched -- fashion was never a priority for him.

Concealing himself entirely was like lifting a fog from his mind. Jeron was better able to focus, realizing that he had been here far too long. He found his dirk and his shortsword, dull and knicked items but trustworthy enough, and fastened them to the belt that had never been removed from his pants. Then he turned just in time to see his savior stagger into the jailhouse, a pale figure of a man leaning heavily against her. This stirred up a commotion from the prisoners still trapped as the thunder rolled ominously outside. She croaked at him, and the injured man let out something in between a cackle and a wheeze.

Jeron said not a word as he slung his bag over his shoulder, and nearly collapsed from the pain of it bumping against his back. That bit of potion hadn't been nearly enough. He leaned against the doorway to catch his breath, letting the pain subside, then began a brisk walk down the corridor, not bothering to slink in the shadows this time.

He paused beside the pair, glancing at the man, his expression hidden behind the shadow his cowl cast over his face. "Leave him," he said softly, cautiously; he was not used to talking to people. "He will slow you down and you will both die."