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]

Outside the door the arguements raged, some heated, some quiet, all in shock and uncertain. Through the solid oak the voice of Gustaph Frenk reigned over all, insisting that everything must be done to find the culprit immediatly. His voice boomed over the tears that choked some of the other guests, battling against the Lord and Lady of the castle, who were trying valiently to remain dignified and composed during this disaster. Everyone was questioning each other, eyeing each with suspicion and caution, trying to determine what, exactly, had happened. Who had murdered a guest? And why?

Inside the room, the corpse opened her eyes, coughing violently as her chest gasped to take in the cold, dry air. Her body wretched for a moment in spasm, before once more life returned to each sinew. Overall her skin still felt cold and her senses numb, but the plan was still going perfectly. The climber glanced around, looking at the ceiling and rising upwards, rubbing her limbs vigourously to restore blood flow to every muscle. She was going to need them.

No doubt everyone in the castle would be wondering what had happened, and no doubt a search would soon take place. That was fine by her. She had, by her reckoning, maybe ten minutes before the guards would return and report that the castle was, indeed, deserted. Then would come the rapid chase for the culprit; each dinner guest would be a suspect, meaning that guards would be drawn away from the interior patrols to keep a watch for any possible further intent of foul play. The exterior guards on the battlements would be moved to the outer perimeter in a search for any clue, or sign of breakin. The Captain of the guard would leave his office on the third floor to personally head up the investigation. It would leave the intended route to the crown perilously undefended.

Having recovered some feeling, the climber rose from the bed and walked to the door, checking gently to confirm that it was, indeed, locked. Gustaph Frenk was a seasoned veteran, and she had no doubt that he would demand that the body be kept under guard for further investigation. The Lord and Lady of the manner however, would not want to leave it lingering in the dining hall. The climber had read their intentions to perfection. She knew from their arrogant, noble ways that a compromise would be required; that would be to move the body to somewhere close by, and yet dignified. She knew, however, that no Altmer lord of breeding and refinement would dain to have a Breton laid out in a fine bedroom. That left only one choice; the room where she had entered.

Ah! The climber paused, realising from her thoughts that she was still in disguise. She was no more a Breton than she was dead. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, it was indeed that of Jasmine Du Lac. She smiled slightly, watching the unfamiliar features, before arching her arms back to remove the fine gown she wore. Nobody had noticed that underneath the gown was a thin, comfortable and tight clothing. Smiling, she dropped the gown on the floor and reached under the bed to retrieve her grappling rope and outer costume, muttering the dispel incantation as she did so.

Magic, as her mentor had taught her, was a powerful thing. Schooled in the art of illusion, her plan had depended on an accurate study of all characters attending the dinner. Jasmine Du Lac was reknowned for her curious nature and love of art. The climber had surmised that she would have made straight for the magnificent tapestries before dinner, hoping to see them in case the host refused permission. There, the climber had given her a small snick on the arm, no more than a pin-prick, containing enough sedative to keep her asleep for at least twelve hours. It was a simple matter then to borrow the outer garment of the guest. She had already assumed her guise through a simple incantation.

The climber finished donning her clothes, and gently pulled the sleeping Jasmine, still dressed in her fine undergarments, from under the bed. Within a minute the real Jasmine Du Lac was dressed much as her double had been at the party, laid out on the bed exactly where she had supposedly been temporarily interred. The climber smiled. In a few hours, she would wake up and the horror for the guests would be over.

Walking over to the window, the climber looked out to check the guard positions. They had, indeed, been reassigned to hunt a 'killer'. There was none. During dinner, the climber had simply administered a small dose of the poison, enough to give her the appearance of death for fifteen minutes. That had been the hardest part so far; had her body not been moved, the entire ruse and ploy would have ended in a harsh prison sentence. Still, the hardest part of the entire escapade was still ahead. Even with the guards adequatly distracted, there was still the small matter of the locks, traps and alarms that guarded the Sildian Crown. And, of course, she had to escape a castle now on the hunt for an intruder.