Chamera could piece together the likely story from his scant descriptions. Drow weren’t known for taking human lovers—but their brutality was known even as far south as Amn. As a little girl, she’d heard stories about the dark elves, meant to frighten her into behaving. It had been a futile effort. She’d lacked the sense to be truly afraid of anything. 

Jeron asked about Pan. Her stomach clenched, as if she had eaten tanglefoot. Her hand automatically moved for the coin in her braid—but her holy symbol had been lost with her cloak.  Her fingers dropped to her lap.

“The Zhents did [i]something[/i] to the Weave. Hid runes and symbols all over the village. I think some of them are Infernal? I’m not an expert on the languages of the Hells. Whatever they did, it’s like…” she frowned, considering her words. “It was like touching the Weave was tainting it. It was difficult to control. And Pan, he’s not some wizard locked up in his tower, poring over books to learn magic. He’s a natural. As long as I’ve known him, he’s always had a spell at his fingertips. Asking him not to cast would be like asking him not to breathe. He drew deep for that blizzard—I suspect it got away from him.”

Chamera returned her gaze to the fire, sweeping her bloodied hair out of her face. She was going to need to set up camp soon, before the ache set into her bones. She breathed a deep, shuddering breath. [i]He’ll live. He will.[/i]

She lifted her pouch from her discarded belt, fiddling with the buckle. Her probing hand plunged into the pocket dimension as she rose to her feet. Tent, bedroll, blanket, food—these were fine distractions from the guilt gnawing at the back of her mind.