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]

"Really? I always thought they shaved those to stop chafing."
"Oh no." the medium frame of Gustaph Frenk replied, leaning over in his suit to extend his point across the table. For a battle hardened warrior, a few of the other guests considered, he was certainly not built for it. He was of average height, average, bordering on slim, build, and his face, though chiselled by the elements, had a certain warmth that fighers generally lacked. His eyes seemed to find delight in the vast array of food and the soft music of that the guests dined to, rather than the lust for battle. "Never shave them. All you need is the right oil based lotion, or perhaps some extra padding."

At the end of the table, Lady Turrellic and the more dignified guests, the two ladies and the merchant, tried to ignore the verbose conversation Frenk and the Argonian were having. Managing only a fain smile to disguise her awkward discomfort, Lady Turrellic brought out a precise and manniqured hand from her side to take up her silver goblet, and sip the wonderful wine within. Harlan Deft saw her discomfort, and decided it was time to change the thoughts in her mind.
"My lady," he said, with the grace and airs that his station had taught him through dilligent observation of true nobility, "I understand that the tapestries of the castle are quite magnificent. Would it be possible later to view them?" he lifted his voice with an element of hope. Sitting across from him, Lady Du Lac allowed herself a wry grin. No doubt the merchant wanted to get into her good books, so that he could offload some trinket or bauble.
"Indeed." Lady Turrellic said, setting her wine down and beaming that someone had heard of her castle's decor, "after dinner if you wish we can tour the upper west turret. Inside is a masterpeice by the legendary Altmer craftsman Vellendil. As I'm sure you are aware, all the finest artwork comes from this isle."
"I couldn't agree more," the merchant agreed, opening his mouth to make a suggestion of purchase, before finding the words snatched out by another. From the centre of the table, where she had been struggling to listen to both conversations, especially what exactly Frenk was suggesting to do with troll fat, Lucinda Kleen decided to venture a statement.
"I understand the castle is also home to the Sildian Crown?"

A silence fell over the room, as Frenk and S'keethlik paused their conversation to listen. Lady Turrellic practically beamed with pride. Every eye in the room fell on her. She could hear the others enraptured. She was loving the attention.
"You are correct, yes." she stated, her smile playing an enigmatic guessing game with the others. "It may even be possible to view it, later tonight."
The hush of the crowd suddenly changed as they each drew breath, salivating at the thought of bearing witness to such a magnificent item. Fine elven workmanship, embrued with a radient blue glow and encrusted with gems that sparkled as the night sky, the Sildian Crown was an item of legend. Nobody seemed to know what to say.

Then it happened. A shill cry, a high pitched, groaning, murmour of death ripped the air, causing every chest in the room to tighten and turn. Clutching her thought, her face twisted in a hideous appearance of death, Jasmine Du Lac had turned a sickly green, letting out a last gasp before her body gave in, collapsing to the table with a shudder.

The other guests stopped everything. Some screamed, some drew their swords, some rose and wondered what had happened. Nobody was sure of anything, save one, grisly fact. Death was in the air, and at the table.

Inside the mind of the climber, the clock ticked on. Everything was according to schedule.