As Jeron gathered material for the fire, he paused in brief increments to observe the woman through his peripheral vision. The traps themselves did not fascinate him, but her charms did. Each time she whistled, he would wonder how she created the charms if she did, what sort of magic she used to make them, and how they worked. He wished sorely that he had asked Maura to teach him more about magic while she was still alive. He wished more fervently that he knew more about how magic worked. Learning even the basic principles of magic was difficult with no one to teach him; most individuals would rather kill him than exchange a word with him. Acquiring books and scrolls with this knowledge was just as difficult and risky.

He mulled over what questions to ask as he crouched to clear a spot and arrange his haul of twigs and sticks into a suitable starting fire. How should he approach his first magic lessons with someone other than Maura? It occurred to him that he had no idea where to begin or how to even properly ask. Civil social interaction was something he hadn't practiced for quite some time.

This fact became evident as the woman approached. Jeron gritted his teeth beneath his cloak, each obnoxious crunch of a dry leaf beneath the weight of her footsteps a tick against his patience. "Must the whole world know you are walking?" he hissed quietly, not realizing that she had been noisy on purpose out of courtesy to him. He wasn't used to courtesy, empathy, and kindness from others.

Jeron kept his gaze fixated on his makeshift unlit camp fire pit as she crouched near him, feeling every muscle tense as his hands balled into fists and his jaw tightened from anxiety. He wasn't used to being so close to someone without hostility, even though they were separated by the space of a campfire. Should she make any sudden movements towards him, he would spring into his escape, though he knew he wouldn't get far with his current injuries and weakened state. He also knew that she was not here to hurt him and that there was absolutely no reason to be so tense. This was a learned instinct, however, born from a lifetime of fear and mistrust. He had to inwardly remind himself that just moments ago they had leaned against each other for support in order to get to this area. How odd it was to feel so threatened now without the adrenaline, fear, and desperation to cloud his sense of personal boundaries. It was all he could do to keep from scrambling up the nearest tree.

When she asked about the fire, he only nodded, very stiffly, eyeing her hands carefully. His gaze locked on the flex of her fingers, following their movements with heightened suspicion.

All tension, all anxiety, all suspicion melted away with the birth of the flame in the woman's hands. Jeron's lips parted as he watched, awed, while her flame caught the wood beneath her hands. His hands relaxed, the rigidity of his posture yielding to slumping shoulders and a careful release of a sigh. It was not long before a cheery little fire was crackling away, its warming light comforting against Jeron's skin. He had seen many people conjure fire before. In fact, with effort, he could summon a little cantrip of a flame on the tip of his finger. Still, seeing any form of magic at work spellbound him just as much as the first time he had seen the Weave in use. His heart ached with the yearning to conjure flames like hers so easily.

Jeron blinked, realizing that she was speaking, alarmed that he had lowered his guard around a stranger so easily. His body snapped back to attention, causing his back to ache. He stared at her as she explained who she was and what she was doing in Shadowdale while his mind raced to think up a natural, fluid, conversational response and his own introduction. It had been ages since he last held a civil conversation with anyone.

Jeron licked his lips nervously. His savior -- no, Chamera, was asking for his name. He had only ever given it out once, and he had hoped never to do so again, choosing to live his life anonymously. What gain would she have in learning his name?

Watching Chamera unwrap her arm to expose a wound reminded Jeron of the night he had met Maura in that field of night blossoms. He remembered how she hastily and none-too-gently pushed up the sleeve of his tattered tunic. Even with his dark skin, it was easy to see the welts along his arm inflicted by his drunk, human mother. He had been so young then, a child, not knowing that such beatings weren't normal. He remembered shaking like a leaf, in the verge of tears, knowing that he was not allowed to let anyone see him, that he should be hiding from the girl that was studying him so, that he would most certainly be punished for endangering his life and his mother's life like this...

... Yet the glow of Maura's small hands kept him in place, and the warm tingling of his skin as her simple healing spell soothed his bruises kept him entranced. Maura had never become very good at healing -- her spell was barely enough to chase away  his bruises -- but it was enough for them to become fast friends.

Friends. Jeron lifted his gaze to Chamera's face. He had no interest in making friends with her or anyone else, yet he couldn't allow her to wrap that wound untreated. "That'll get infected." He didn't elaborate on his explanation as he grabbed his bag and rummaged through the various herbs he had gathered, assuming it would be obvious that he would treat her, should she let him. Thinking of her wound made him think about the injuries that he still had, yet he had no desire to undress in front of her to tend to them. He knew she had already seen him in nothing but a flimsy pair of trousers, but not exposing his dark skin and all of his scars was another learned habit that he could not so easily shake off. It was easier to live in this world when no one saw his skin. He would deal with his own injuries later.

Jeron bit into a weed and began to chew, the taste of the bitter liquid making him grimace. He had no affinity for divine magic in the slightest, but he had knew how to survive off the land, one of the few positive things he had learned from his mother. After a moment of chewing, he spat out the pulp onto his palm and tore into more of the weed. "My name is Jeron Mel'vellen," he said as he chewed, averting his gaze as he said his name. "I... didn't know the state of these lands when I got here. I was hoping to learn information from a wizard that lived in the area. I did not realize how persistent these... Zhent would be in capturing me when they found me trespassing." He discovered how much easier it was to talk to someone while also doing something else. As such, he spat out more pulp on his palm. "They would not need Bane as an excuse to kill a half-Drow. An excuse isn't necessary in most cases." He lifted his gaze expectantly to Chamera, gesturing at her arm with the chewed mess on his palm. "I can smear this on you or smear this on myself; it makes no difference to me."