Cat Burglary, Not featuring any Khajits. Options

[Foster]

A loose rock fell down from the cliff, causing the climber to pause and ajust footing. Determined jade eyes glanced down to watch the rock tumble and bounce against the jagged edge, tumbling and spinning its way down the mountainside towards in a seemingly endless, graceful battle against gravity before it finally impacted invisibly down below. Two thousand feet down below. The climber steadied the body, tightening every muscle against the sheer face, and sucked in the chillingly thin air.

Only fifty feet to go. Then it was over the castle walls.

Castle Turrellic was as ancient as the bloodline it housed, and given the fiercely stated pedigree of the ancient family, that was saying something. The Turrellic's were known all through the Empire, let alone this fog encased corner of Summerset Isle. They were the pinnacle of Altmer society, aloof mages and gold-encrusted nobility. The climbers brow furrowed, and the ascent continued. Altmer. Too high and mighty. It was as though they considered everything to be their own birthright.

Reaching the wall, the climbers body flicked nimbly up and over the wall in a spiralling cartwheel, before the lithe footwork landed near-silently on the sun caked stone of the castle walls. Along each side the braziers burnt with a ferocious glow, casting long pools of light that the watch clung to. The climber ignored them all, moving stealthily into the dark, leaning against the wall and materialising as to be one with the shadows.

Eyes closed. Breathing controlled. Heart rate dropped to a near silent, slow rhythm of no more than fifty beats per minute. Ears flicked to pick up the sound of the guards metallic boots against the stone. Pace, pace... steady. Inside the mind of the climber, a clock materlialised, each second counting down a moment that had to be waited. The timing was critical, as this was the exact point of the guard change. Once the guard turned, only a few metres away from the shadow that concealed the climber's presence, there would only be a small window. Fifteen seconds.

Clang. The echo resounded nearby, the shaft of the guards halberd dropping to signify the start of the turn. Everything at Castle Turrellic was done to ancient custom and symbolism, every movement precise. It made it easy for the climber. In one movement the black garb was removed, the mask that had concealed the face gone, strands of hair caught against the wind. The climber ignored all the sensations, focusing only on the routine rehearsed a thousand times in the practice cellar. Throughout the two jade eyes remained closed. Twelve seconds. The climbing gear was off, the boots were slipped off, left neatly in the shadow. Ten Seconds. Costume change complete. The thin rope, made of woven hair bound with an intricate magical property, was cast up. The climber allowed a smile as a near-silent noise, no more than a whisper, signified the metallic barb at the end had found the target.

Seven seconds. The climber reached down and collected the gear, finally opening the two eyes to check on the progress of the guard. The High Elf, dressed in a shining Dwarven bronze, was still turning. Another smile. Silently the climber grasped the rope and swung upwards, stretching the body taught in a pose that would cause a gymnast to wince. Two strong thighs wrapped against the rope, allowing the hands to release and pick up the boots, which were rapidly tucked and folded into the sachtel that hung from the climbers belt.

Four seconds. The climbers eyes closed once more as the body contorted into a spin, the edges of the legs and arms leaping for a brief second out of the shadow, before their giveaway signs were gone. Pulling on the rope, the climber made it up the thin sliver in three graceful, over-arm tugs. From the new position, ten metres above the guard, the jade eyes once more looked down. The guards changed, rotated, and came back past the shadows. Silently, the climber pulled up the thin sliver of rope, leaving nothing but the memory of presence down below.

The climber allowed for another smile, before contorting once more and catapulting the lithe figure through a nearby bedroom window, the left hand remaining clenched to pull the barb from the wooden beam, dragging the grappling rope inside the building. Effortlessly the left hand flicked the thin cord and barb underneath a waiting bed, before taking the satchel and casting it, too, under the waiting matress. The climber, having removed the black garb and now dressed only in the costume underneath, checked the appearance once in a nearby mirror, making a slight adjustment to the hair. From the detailed, etched plans of the castle this was the second guest bedroom. Rarely used, except on festival nights or when lower guests that were considered too low-born for finest Altmer hospitality. Neither applied this night. The climber smiled, and gracefully walked out the door, the jade eyes gleaming with anticipation of the nights prize.

[Foster]

Ardago Turrellic shifted in his throne and let out a barely stiffled yawn, allowing the entire room to know just how mind-numbingly boring he found the whole proceeding to be. Sat in his regal robes, flowing ermine and gilted seams, he cast a barely open eye across the room and leant slightly to one side.
"And who..." he said, pausing for effect and allowing his hand to wave over the crowd nonchalantly, "are they?" His eyes flicked to the right simultaniously, fixing their gaze on the court steward. The proud Altmer walked forward and bowed slightly, so that his head would not be higher than the Count's. It was ettiquette. Nobody's head could be higher than the Counts. The Count always took delight in enforcing this rule, usually by vacating his seat and walking down to the laid out red carpet that covered the audience hall, forcing anyone taller than he to bow a little, and usually suffer back pain in the morning.
"They, my lord?"
"They." The count repeated, casting his hand over the assembled members once more. The steward smiled.
"They are the guests of Lady Turrellic, sire. She is holding a small dinner engagement tonight in the East Wing."

Turrellic's nose sniffed upwards somewhat, as though his eyes felt dirty just for having to look at the collection of...others. He wrinkled his brow in slight dissaproval.
"They're not staying, are they?"
"No, sire. They are here for the engagement only."
"Good. I'd hate to be required to burn the bedsheets, just to prevent them being contaminated by this filth." The count allowed his voice to rise slightly, to grace the hall with an air of mild xenophobia. The gathered crowd didn't reply. He smiled to himself. Wise. If they had, he would have had every right to throw them out. As much as it would annoy his wife, he certainly considered it due justification. He paused. "And who, exactly, are they?" he asked once more. The steward cast his eyes over them, knowing them off by heart, and relaying the information as his mind thought about each one in turn.

In the corner was Gustaph Frenk. Leader of a band of mercenaries from Cyrodiil, Imperial by birth, and clearly not suited to the hall. He was dressed in a shining light armour, obviously not his usual suit given that it was actually clean. Standing next to him was a merchant, Harlan Deft, another Imperial, this time dressed from head to toe in blue suede. He looked more like a demented peacock than a human.

Across the room, entering from a sidedoor where she had presumably been exploring the castles many libraries and staterooms, was the Lady Lucinda Kleen, from noble Redguard stock, and at least dressed with some propriety. Her dark eyes cast across the room as she made no attempt to show any intrest to those captivated by her dark tan and smooth curves barely hidden under the satin dress. To her side was another lady, Jasmine Du Lac, this one a Breton. She too had an unconventional beauty, large eyes that seemed to draw others in from across the room. Her hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, a red and brilliant firey mass of shining copper. Not bad, for an outsider. And lastly there was the swamp rat...creature. The green eyes that blinked sideways, the swinging tail, of the Argonian Skeeth'lik. He saw the steward spot him and smiled, showing his row of fangs. The steward refused to acknowledge it.

"I see." The count said, clearly dismayed somewhat by the gathering, but deciding that he couldn't stop his wife having her little fun. He would have preferred those of pure breeding only, but what could be done? The count rose, causing a hush to fall around the walls.
"Ladies and Gentlemen." He began, his voice annuciating clearly that he considered them neither, "Welcome to my domain." he bowed graceously, as though he himself had provided the invitation, before turning to the steward, and whispering, "now get them out of here before I detect their stench."
The steward nodded, and indicated a sideroom to the guests. "This way, ladies and gentlemen." he said.

Inside the room, the climbers eyes and ears watched all and heard all.