Chamera crossed her legs, offhandedly unbuckling her belt and sheaths, fingers stumbling across the buckles. She dropped the leather beside her ruined bracer on the earth, shifting her weight more comfortably. Gently placing the wounded arm across her lap, she’d been about to wind the arm when the Drow spoke.

It was a simple statement. Chamera turned her gaze on him, digging through a small bag. She considered the wound again, flexing the fingers on her left hand and gritting her teeth at the ache. Gods above, she was lucky it hadn’t hit bone. She needed her sword arm if she was to survive.

“Will it?” She wondered, a touch of worry in her voice. She chuckled weakly, shaking her head. “I’m useless at healing. I’ve always been better at stabbing than being stabbed.”

He was chewing on a weed, and Chamera eyed it curiously. Despite her years traveling, she was no woodsman. She’d never braved the wilds on her own. There had always been someone else to track the woods and gather healing herbs. Valyriathenniel had found her ignorance highly amusing, as if their elven father’s blood would have given Chamera an intuitive understanding of woods and dirt. It was ridiculous; she had grown up in the largest city in Amn, sneaking around sewers, working in the tavern, and pickpocketing through the market. Let the elfy elves have the woods. She vastly preferred the bustle of civilization. 

He gave her his name, although he seemed reluctant. He spoke of the Dale and his unfortunate journey through the land. He’d said something curious. A wizard? Elminster, perhaps? It had to be. Elminster’s Tower was a paradise for enterprising thieves. Chamera hadn’t bothered with the place. Any treasures that might remain after a few hundred years of neglect wouldn’t be worth the wizard’s wrath when she returned to Everlund.

“You’re half, then? I wouldn’t have guessed.” She queried, surprised, head tilting in question. She’d had no idea. Now that she studied him in the firelight, it made sense. His ears weren’t quite as exaggerated, his features less angular and, in all her years, she’d never met an elf with the beginnings of a beard. “I haven’t met many other half elves.”

Certainly not Half-Drow, she mused. How unfortunate. No one would really mind the human distinction, would likely treat him just as poorly as the infamous dark elves. Hells, she’d been fooled herself. She’d never even thought of the existence of Half Drow, although she supposed it was no less possible than the union of her Sun Elf father and human mother. 

He offered the pulp in his hand, apparently a healing agent of some sorts. Chamera considered it for a breath, before offering her wounded arm.

“I would appreciate the help,” she grimaced a bit, clenching her fist against the dull ache. “Thank you.”