Farrival pressed flat against the side of the Griffith Manse, the metal studs of his clothing clinked against the stone with what must have been an unearthly clatter.
He paused.
Miraculously, only silence filled the pause. But Farrival could barely tell with his own heart pounding so hard.
Not hearing an armed response, he flourished an invisible Stage Hand towards the window 40 feet away. Ever so slightly, he tested the window before opening it. Stage Hand was damn practical for safety, especially for Farrival who was not particularly good at detecting magical traps or any sort of magic. But he yearned to be closer to the action, closer to the risk. He muttered, still richly and resonantly, to himself:
How dull it is to pause, to make an end
To rust unfurnished, not to shine in use!
Some work of noble note may yet be done.
After all, a spotlight is a spotlight, even if it is shone by a security guard.
The window lifted with slight pressure and Farrival raised it only as high as needed. Dashing towards the opening, he levered himself through, flipping over the sill, and landed in a crouch.
Silence.
Seemingly undetected by the guards and house staff, a smug grin curled Farrival’s mouth and pushed his eyebrow rakishly upwards.
He rose and surveyed the room. A bureau, a small desk, not recently dusted. A spare room.
“Hmph. Beneath me. Let’s find the main stage!”
Farrival opened the interior door and stuck his head out. All clear, he padded down the hallway. Making his way from room to room, he soon drifted into autopilot. Sadly, there was nothing remarkable about this house - he’d seen its like countless times before. “This Griffith fellow lacked flair! And so did the Changeling who offed him.”
Soon, a hallway led him to the front foyer - main receiving room and proscenium to the entire house. On the threshold, Farrival paused to listen.
He thought, “Still undetected. That certainly won’t hold much longer. Not much place to hide. Looks like I’ve no choice, though, drat the luck. And that large, grand staircase - there could be anyone on the other side! A contingent of liveried guards ready to duel! Or, perhaps the last, loyal personal armsman. Or even just a … a … a cook! A cook of exceptional dedication!”
Reflexively, he executed a quick breathing exercise, and then entered the foyer.
As he walked, not a single squeaky floorboard paid notice to his cat-like tread.
“Ahem. Hello?”
He remained undetected.
Suddenly, a sound and the feel of pressure on his pocket!
In an instant he thought: “Of course, Farrival, you fool! Some cunning foe has lulled you into the open with false security!” His mind whirled with options: Riposte with Strangford’s Point! No - rebuff the assailant with Thunderwave! NO! Breakspeare! Surely, that Orcish bard of bards has penned words meet for such a conflict!”
He drew in his breath to project for the entire house to hear.
Then he paused, somehow with yet more time to think. “Wait a minute. Why have I not been stabbed yet?”
Farrival reassessed the threat. No throbbing pain or gouts of blood. He turned around. No cunning foe.
“I say there, hello?”
The noise and pressure again. He reached into his pocket.
“Ah.” He withdrew the small rock, polished and rune-etched. “My alarm.”
“Damn! My alarm!”
Farrival bolted back along his path and back out the window. He raced along the house grounds and pushed his way through the privacy foliage to the main road.
He was late for his job interview.