They ran. His strides were longer than hers, forcing her to match his pace. Pan was strung between them, his legs occasionally dragging along the black earth. Her shoulder was numb where she supported the unconscious sorcerer. The Drow was sure footed in the shadows-- but, knowing the stories, that shouldn't have surprised her. It was proving more and more difficult for her to see, even with her keen eyesight. It was as if the woods had been covered in pitch. It had been barely noon in the village, but here in the heart of the woods, it might as well have been midnight. There was no sun to guide her, and she could only pray they were still heading south. South was freedom-- if they could get to the Moonsea Ride, she could get them to Cormyr. If she could get to Suzail, she could find her fellow Harpers, send word to Everlund, and begin calling on old favors. They just had to survive the woods. And the road, plagued by bandits and all sorts of beasties... Chamera winced. One thing at a time.

She could barely breathe. Pan was too heavy, his body too cold for her to carry any longer. She coughed, trying to find words in her exhaustion. 

"I can't--" she sputtered, losing precious air to speech. Her everything hurt, every muscle screaming, the curl of magic in her breast like a knife jostling with every footstep. She tried to slow the brutal pace, stumbling on a root. She spat an orcish curse reflexively, tried not to drag them all down with her as she staggered. Pan was silent and cold and she was terrified he had already died. Gods, she couldn't let him die. Pan was selfish and cruel but he was her friend and he'd saved her life. It was imperative he live. She couldn't bear another life on her conscience. "I can't keep this pace."

Chamera had no idea how long they had been running, but she knew her limits. She forced a stop, choking for breath, easing Pan against a tree. Pulling her glove off with her teeth, she searched desperately for his pulse. It was thready and shallow in his nearly translucent skin, but she choked out a laugh when she found it, dropping her forehead to his. It stung to touch him but gods, he might just survive this. Her hands shook as she pulled away, digging for the bag strapped to her hip. Her arm sunk into it to the elbow, scrabbling for a waterskin in the pocket dimension. The magic of the bag did not spark-- the damage to the Weave must have been localized to the village. Chamera withdrew the oiled canvas, drinking around shuddering breaths. She needed to patch up her arm soon, lest it become infected.

Chamera forced herself up, all too aware of the danger of stiffness. The woods were still around them. Chamera cast a wary gaze around them. She knew the stories of these woods from first hand experience-- the last time she had traveled through this forrest, she had been poisoned by a spider the size of a horse. She had no desire to repeat that experience. Not without a proper healer, at least.

She turned her hazel eyes on the Drow, hesitating for a long moment. He had yet to try and kill her. He'd saved her life-- and he wanted magic from them. She had to trust that, until he got what he wanted, he would not sink a blade into her throat. Taking a steadying breath, Chamera offered him her waterskin.

"Drink what you need. I have more in my pack," she remarked as evenly as she could manage, her voice less ravaged.