Sam scrambled back from the encroaching tendrils, then threw himself against his chains with all his strength.
He did try to throw up on Mizzamir, but must have already done some of that while unconscious, because a splurt of acid and blood was all he could manage, and it just went all down his front.
The thick, swirling midnight aura of shadow and flame began to show around him, being pulled forth by the magic of the staff, and searing away in its light.
He didn't cry out, even as Mizzamir told him, "You may feel some slight pressure--", and the force of the magic slowly poured into him and crackled along every vein, with a sound and smell a bit like frying. The shadow fought back, the flames within lashing against the golden coils like serpents, but it was slowly starting to falter...
Arcie didn't give a damn about Sam. But the way Mizzamir had said the m-words... oh, he knew what was left unsaid. That was an insult no one had dared use on him in twenty years. Here he was, trapped and going to be turned into a farmer or something, and his last act was to be belittled by some poncing wizard?! Something clicked in his mind and he grinned a smug snarl.
"Hey Sam! Viper! I'll pay ye a thousand gold pieces fer the head of Mizzamir the Archmage!" he shouted, and Oarf almost backhanded him before realizing/remembering he wasn't supposed to do that sort of thing.
Mizzamir ignored him entirely, but Sam took a sudden deep gasp of breath, and exhaled it in a snarl--
"...Accepted."
The fire in his aura erupted like a supernova, lighting the blackness with the ancient blood red magic that knew no good nor evil, for it was far older; old as life and death. It roared over the golden tendrils, blasting them back, as Mizzamir startled, slightly, then leaned closer, redoubling his efforts. His fine brows furrowed in the beginnings of consternation.
Sam pulled the flames, the darkness, everything, back into himself, letting the power burn through him like a forest fire. His pupils dilated, his nostrils flared, his teeth bared, and he tore the left-hand manacle clean out of the wall with a sharp crack.
The manacle and the fist above it slammed into the side of Mizzamir's head with enough force to knock the Elf sprawling backwards against the doorway, unmoving. The staff clattered to the floor, the golden light flickering out instantly with a smell of burning lemons.
Oarf shouted "Hey!" and grabbed for his weapon-- a weapon he'd stopped bothering to carry, these days. As he slapped his hips awkwardly and spun around as though doing some odd folk dance, Sam grabbed his other wrist with his free hand and put his feet against the wall as he pulled with all his might. This cuff held, but his flesh gave way. The skin peeled and tore, blood sprayed, and the hand pulled free.
Of course Sam still had his ankle chains on, though, so he lunged and fell flat on his face, snarling and clawing at the stone as he tried to reach the prone Mizzamir. Oarf aimed a punch at his head, and Sam whirled like a crocodile and grabbed his fist, throwing him back and breaking his wrist in the process.
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Oarf crashed into the wall beside Arcie, and Arcie's nimble toes quickly grabbed the keys off his belt. Oarf didn't notice, screaming from the pain as he hit the wall near Mizzamir. He grabbed the unconscious Elf with his good arm and scuttled awkwardly out the door, slamming it behind him.
"Sam! Keys!" Arcie shouted, flipping the keys as best his metatarsals could allow. Sam grabbed them in midair and in a couple of attempts had popped open his leg restraints. He slammed his shoulder against the heavy cell door, then tried to stick his arm out the small grating to unlock the door from the outside.
"Here, hangabout, ain't ye forgettin' something?" Arcie demanded indignantly.
He'd seen Sam in assassin-mode before, but usually it was more a cold, methodical stalk, like a predator. This was something else-- this was personal.
"Target," Sam spat, not looking around.
"Hallooo, customer here?! Always right? Lemme out, feckin' fool so ye are!"
"Busy," was the terse reply, and Arcie rolled his eyes.
"Ye took the contract, aye, but ye gotta collect, lad-- that means me! Get me loose!"
Assassins didn't usually let emotion into their hunting, but Sam was fighting not just to kill, but to avenge his family. Sam struggled between vengeance and sanity a moment. He'd been self-centered the last few weeks; self-medicating, self-loathing, self-pitying, self-sabotaging, self-destructing. But now there was something more. Something to do.
All this time, he'd felt these things, watched his friends and family be torn apart by others for nothing more than a difference. He'd argued and brooded and thought and reasoned, to no avail. It had always been just a thing that was happening, a faceless turning tide that he could swim against all he liked, without making a dent in the current.
But now... there was someone to blame. Now he had a target. And a lifetime of frustrated, unfocused, unbidden, unexpected strength was erupting through him now. As though the black iron shackles* he'd escaped from had been on his mind, rather than his flesh. In the brilliant light of burning bridges, the thought of self paled into insignificance.
"Fine," he snarled, and he used his right hand-- which was missing a lot of skin and splashing a lot of blood--to unlock enough of Arcie's bonds so that he could shove the key into the thief's fingers.
The "assassin's fire" was just another term for that sort of awkward tendency to explode under pressure which has powered legions of legends. Berserkers, ninjas, serial killers, dervishes, hashhishim, mass murderers, barbarians, those possessed by god or demon; if it flips out and kills people, that's what it is.
The tendency is inherited, and there are various ways to cope. Sam's training had emphasized professionalism, honor, and discipline; even if you were killing someone, you didn't have to be rude about it. And he was trained well-- part of Sam's incoherently raving mind was muttering that really, contracts needed to be in writing, signed by both parties, and that a thousand was an insultingly low price, it should be at least fifty--
He lunged, leaped, and kicked the door in a particular place with the full force of his strength, and the lock held but the wood tore around it, and the door opened in a spray of splinters.
"Kill," Sam snarled, and took off down the hallway.
Meanwhile, Arcie was quickly plying the keys to the many locks clenched around him-- a lot of the keys didn't fit, but give Arcie a bit of pointy metal, and any lock would fall in a swoon. You don't get to be Guildmaster of Thieves without certain skills beyond what would seem possible. It was quicker to pick them with the wrong key than to try the all others. Layer on layer of leather and metal fell away.
Arcie dropped to the floor, with a glance down at himself. "Crikey," he muttered, looking around quickly with a blush that was somewhat tempered with a smirk, and he quickly padded his bare feet out of there.