It was strange to have a normal conversation with someone. Jeron stared, listening intently, taking it all in with a slight, eager nod of his head at all the right moments. Though he didn't say much himself, he liked feeling included in something docile and ordinary. "I've... never met my father," Jeron said quietly, "nor do I want to. Mother liked to remind me often of the wrong he did by her. I know nothing of him except for a name." He left the conversation at that. His mother never talked about his Drow father unless she was drunk, then he was the only thing on her mind. They hadn't been lovers, hadn't been friends, hadn't even known each other; it was a wonder Jeron's mother had been allowed to live at all. Jeron remembered being fascinated by Maura's stories of her parents who got along with each other far better.

Jeron turned his attention to Pan just as Chamera did, wondering if the human would survive the night. He was an herbalist but not a physician. Idly, he thought of what he could mix or grind together to ease a fever if he had one or to help him sleep or to wake him up... "What happened to him anyway?" he asked. "Something to do with his magic?" He peered through the darkness at the man, feeling himself scowl anew at just the sight of him. Jeron had not gotten a good impression from the man while he was conscious and suspected that he should stay on his guard in case Pan woke up. Jeron felt perfectly content to leave him as he was and hoped he stayed that way for a while.