Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25808351-20200326185554/@comment-28358106-20200401031505

The guard was gone. The opportunity presented itself.

Dorian takes a step back and, with a two step lead, leaps onto the side of the buttress, then springs off of it to the one beside it, then springs off that one. One more leap and he tosses his grapple, hauling himself to the top of the support. It's a small perch, but he has ascended twenty some odd feet in seconds and is now almost even with the roof. Pausing to look around from his perch to make sure no other guards are coming, he whips his grapple loose, repositions it, and tosses it onto the roof.

He doesn't use it for his sole lift, but just to steady himself. He crouches and leaps, tugging hard as he pulls himself onto the top of the mansion. He doesn't scramble; he can feel the slick surface of the tiles fighting his grip. His leg swings up, then an arm, and he rolls onto the roof.

He keeps a low profile as he slinks to where his grapple had caught. He loosens it from the roof peak and gathers the line.

He switches sides. He secures his hook to a better anchor this time; a brick chimney gives him what he needs. Holding the line, he carefully works his way down the slope to the other side. A glance over the edgeshows him that he has found his window.

This was the difficult part. It was also the most fun.

He pulls in his line, stores it, and flattens against the roof. He pulls a piton and, with a practiced jab, drives its hook deep into the wood of the roof eave. He pulls a wire from his coat and, sliding it through the cloth of his mask, holds the piton with an iron grip and rolls himself over the side.

His muscles strain as his grip on the piton is tested. Keeping himself calm and fighting the strain, he slowly swings his feet forward until they find the ledge of the window. The drapes are closed, giving him little light.

His feet now planted, his muscles aren't under so much strain. He places his ear close to the window pane, tuning out the patter of rain. No voices. Smiling, he uses his free hand to bend the wire into a shape he can use, and carefully slips it between the frames of the window. The wire probes, manipulated by his gloved hand.

A minute passes as he works slowly, methodically. The latch is unhooked, and lifted away.

He retrieves his tool and waits. The cold rain runs down his cape, streaming off of his hat. His right arm begins to go numb as his grip on the piton remains.

Flash. Then thunder.

He loosens his piton and slips through the window. He turns and closes it without leaving the safety of the drapes. He holds his breath as he strains to listen to the house while the rumble dies down, daring only to look through them when he is sure he is alone.