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.

Really exciting and detailed. It was very well thought out...but what race is the burglar??


Can't wait for next update

Ah, a very nice story. Very exciting and we have a mysterious character.

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.

Very good way of making us hate that pompous count.

Great story so far.

I have yet to read a better delivered story then this one. So descriptive and well plotted, much like a work of art rather then a story. I loved it and I can't wait for you to post more!

Yes it is quite well written, this and your other story "The Eight Bells" are both of the highest quality and depth. Keep on writing and I'll keep on reading.

Ew, now I am really beginning to hate Altmer. (he is an Altmer, isn't he?)

Anyway, nice as usual.

I thinkthat the count and Arygon would work well together, for 10 seconds then the count would find a shortsword sticking out of his neck

Amazing story....glad I´ve read it..and I will continue doing so...so yo better update!

"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.

Poisoned wine? A poison dart? ok just tell me cause I definitly missed something...

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.

Actually, on second thoughts this is a bit lame and is creating twists that seem to come out of nowhere. That's no fun. Twists should be subtly hinted at before they happen. I think I'll start over on something new.

Amazing story, but it does seem to have run to a close. The intersting bit is now done with as we have everything laid out to us on a platter.

Look forward to your next story.

Good work anyway...whatever you decide to do.....it´s gonna be great!

Well, I liked it. You are a very good writer.