Malcador had seen the weaving of magic too fast for the eye to follow. Movements so quick, flows so minute in design, they could barely be said to have occurred at all. Yet the assassin moved like a dream. Serpents could not claim something so sinuous, and yet it was beautiful. He had been attracted before, but the fluidity of her motion was mesmerizing, and the smoke only added to the mystique. However, Arloke's alien form broke the spell, and he realized for a single breath he had been staring before he tumbled out of the doorway, and his mind caught up with him. He coughed, but kept himself upright as the drow caught her breath. Suddenly, he realized he felt the weave again. It was as if Mystra had awoken and touched his brow.

The drow also made a fine point, it was time to go. 

As if on cue, Arloke spat out a small glob of silk into Malcador's open palm. "Eugh..." he complained, but it was needed. Quickly, he placed the bottle of alcohol on the ground and he withdrew the thread from his pocket, holding it taut with a flourish, keeping it vertical to the ground so the silk would slid into it. He began to chant the opening to the incantation, needing to begin softly to catch the winds of magic before he could truly call upon the powers. Like one could feel the water they had just drunk sliding down their throat, he finally felt the weave come around into the center of his sensations, and then he began to speak louder. He could only see his hands before him. He did not hear the shouts of curiosity from his left, at least not at first. When he did, it was distant, out of focus. He could barely hear the metallic sound of swords leaving their sheathes, and men crying out for them to halt their activity. He could make out the tensing of his companion, but his spell reached a crescendo, and suddenly the silk, as well as the thread, were consumed by purplish flames that erupted from the bottle. 

Immediately Malcador grabbed the assassin's wrist as smoke whirred to envelop him, and he pulled her close in a sudden embrace to make sure he did not leave her behind. "Don't stab me!" He said hastily, and he felt Arloke clinging to his leg as the mystical smoke ensconced them. The guards leaped into the smoke, but their swords cleaved through nothing, and their hands grabbed only one another. 

For a single instant, there was a feeling of utter weightlessness as their bodies were flung through an unknown dimension. However, just as soon as the weightlessness had appeared, gravity came crashing back, and both the mage and drow hit the dirt as if they were lovers that had been shoved off a table. Malcador felt her knee go into his stomach, and his dark blue eyes widened as the breath was driven out of his lungs. However, the sky above, though the same sky, was now marred by the leaves of trees on the right. Idly he realized the wall of Thentia loomed over them... 

The outer wall. 

They had made it outside! No wonder it was so bloody cold. For a brief moment, he appreciated the drow's warmth, but he knew every second added to the possibility of being stabbed, or perhaps she would bite his jugular and drink his blood? He was still unsure of what drow females did to people that were no longer useful. It was an intrusive thought, he doubted she would do that at this point. But now was also the moment of clarity. Now they technically did not need each other, at least not immediately. 

Malcador would push her off of him, but he also knew putting his hands on her wasn't smart, so he simply let her go. Arloke shimmied off his leg, helpfully. 

"We did it." he croaked with little enthusiasm.