Well that was visceral. 

The wizard had seen many things in his time. At Neverwinter, he had been allowed to experiment with a multitude of expensive ingredients, like the pincers of an Umberhulk and the brain of an intellect devourer. He had cast a number of destructive spells that ripped a tree to pieces, he had divined the coming of events that would lead to his graduation, and he had charmed an unruly horse into allowing him as his rider. Even past those, his greatest strengths were in abjuration and transmutation, and if allowed to cast freely, no doubt the 'assassin' as she called herself would be impressed. 

However, he was like a wet blanket at the moment, and he just saw her smother a man with silk and stab him to death. 

Effective, but unnerving. Basheba, at least he found the one honorable drow this side of the Aunorach. He had followed her closely, doing his best to not make noise. He was good at that, admittedly. But physical fighting was not his forte, the wizard desperately wishing for his staff so he at least had something to strike someone with if the need came. 

"Yes, I'm ready." He whispered to her, nodding. He might not have her darkvision, but his midnight blue eyes were keen, and there was still the occasional torch he found. Plus, he was used to skulking in the dark from his youth. He might be clumsy compared to the drow, but to most he was rather nimble and alert in the dark. The two would-be escapees continued forward, Malcador letting the assassin lead as he kept an eye for someone trying to sneak on their flank. Every now and then he would feel something silken and sticky run across his cheek or shoulder, and tried not to shudder, knowing the small bits of spider silk likely led to the exit. 

Down a corridor, they passed several wooden doors reinforced with iron, likely with criminals and various thugs that required solitary confinement. The stone floor had bits of crumbs and dust, even a leaf, likely from the slight breeze Malcador felt on his face and the prison cooks bringing in whatever foodstuffs were to be brought to the prisoners. To the poor souls behind the doors, it was survival, but to Malcador, it tasted like freedom. They reached the foot of the hall, and it led to an old, dilapidated stairway going up. At the top, there was a warm glow, and once they reached the lip of the stairwell, Malcador realized they were at the barracks of the guard station. He watched as two men in half plate armor and thentian surcoats stepped out of a door, and sunlight streamed in from beyond. At the sight, his heart began to race. 

There was a fire in a hearth at the left, and a sleeping man snoring on a cushioned chair beside it. In his hand was an empty bottle of something Malcador couldn't guess. To the right, a round table with three men playing cards, mumbling to each other and snickering at intervals. Two of them younger men, likely recruits. The third was older, a veteran probably. There was a carpet on the floor with blue and gold thentian colors. He could smell whiskey and freshly cooked pork, and for a moment Malcador was afraid his stomach would rumble. He motioned for the assassin to back down with him, and halfway up the stairs he whispered to her. 

"If we can make it out of here, as soon as we leave that door, I can teleport us away. Not out of the city, but we'll have a head start." He explained, glancing up the stairway. Mystra knew he was tired and hungry, and still stiff. He sighed. "Well... I should not say 'I can.' A quick teleportation spell requires a bit of thread, a splash of alcohol, and the silk of a spider, and the somatic components. We have two of the physical components." 

He swiftly ripped a small thread off of his garment, whipping it before him before pulling it taut. "I'll follow your lead, tackle who I must. But I need one of those bottles, and some of Arlocke's silk. Once we make the door, leave it to me." 

He closed his eyes, and began searching his memory for the right incantation. His tether to the source of magic was severed, but he still vaguely felt...something. Perhaps it was their proximity to the exit, but it was not quite as absent as it was below. However, he still could not conjure a spell yet. Instead, he went over the complexities of the phrases and gestures he would have to perform to call upon the weave, and once he familiarized himself from his memory, he opened his striking blue eyes again. "I'm ready. Lead on, assassin."