For a moment, she thought he might refuse her. He studied her suspiciously, as if she herself hadn’t just sated her thirst with the same water. She arched a brow, waiting patiently. Finally, he accepted the flask, drinking deep. She accepted the flask, setting it beside the unconscious sorcerer. The Drow addressed her, practical. She could appreciate that.



“I have some traps and a few cantrips, but they are simple. Pan, if he—“ she hesitated, looking to the pale man and clenched her fist. “_When_ he wakes, can do something more sophisticated.”



The Drow was efficient. He’d already gathered a great deal of materials. Chamera breathed deep. She needed to focus. If she lost herself to grief and worry now, they’d all be dead. Sinking her arm into her pack, she willed her equipment to hand, pulling her metal traps from the pocketspace into the prime material plane. Four remaining—she’d need to build more soon, but this would be enough for the night. She set to work, skulking the perimeter of their small camp, considering likely approaches.



Hiding them was simple enough, weaving the leg hold traps into the undergrowth, configuring the mechanism with a soft touch. She whistled, hand waving dismissively. The misdirection charm was almost childish in its simplicity, but it would suffice for now. 



She returned to the clearing, careful to clean her tracks behind her, hoping they had enough hours ahead to survive the night. The Drow had collected a reasonable supply of firewood, built into a sturdy little fire. She approached cautiously, careful to crunch the leaves beneath her boot. She had no desire to startle a Drow.



“May I?” She gestured to the firewood, hesitating for a long moment. Pulling off her gloves and tucking them into her belt, she flexed her aching fingers. She crouched, searching her memory for the proper incantation, thumbs touching, hands spread.



“_Kal ort’des loryl’flam,_” The Weave leapt to life in her hands, flames curling along the calluses of her fingers, spiraling to the kindling and igniting. Simple magic, but effective. It had warmed her on many nights over the years and saved her life on more than one occasion. Her heart eased at the spread of warm light, better revealing the woods to her. Judging by the width of the trees, they had made good progress. Hopefully, she mused, that progress had been south.



Chamera’s hazel eyes glanced to the Drow—and she promptly realized she had no idea what he was called. Nor he her. It wasn’t the first time she’d run off on adventures with someone she barely knew, but it had been many years since she had been so careless. She raised her hands to the flames, warming them for a brief moment.



“My name is Chamera Balkious,” she remarked, watching the flickering flames. “I was investigating Shadowdale for the Harpers.” She touched the pin on the neck of her shirt, scarred thumb running circles across the little silver harp. “We knew the Zhents had conquered the Dale, but now how. Pan and his company were my cover.”



And now the village lay in tatters, the capital of the Dale utterly destroyed. Brilliant work on her part. She began to unlace the bracer of her wounded arm, easing back shattered chain and leather to reveal the gouge. It was not too deep, and the tight lacing of the bracer seemed to have reduced the bleeding. Chamera dug into her pouch, free arm sinking to the elbow, and withdrew a small roll of bandages. She studied the wound, gingerly turning her arm in the firelight. It would scar, joining the numerous other marks across her tanned flesh, but her arm would survive. That was something.



“And you are?” She queried as she worked, unable to deny her curiosity. “How’d you end up as a sacrifice to Bane?”