…sneak to the door and hope the guard doesn’t see you.

You came for the door, and you’ll be dammed if you’re not going through it! With it finally in your sights, how could you turn back now?

You ready to run to its embrace, and the rough boards beneath your feet clonk noisily in response, as if you remind you of how bad of an idea that would be. Some of them seem balanced on less than cracked slate here; resting on the rotting wood beams that poke up through the collapsed tile work. You hold the wall as you advance, putting as much of your weight as you can into it rather than the planks below. It’s an instinctual thing -the guard had likely walked this circuit many times without bringing the roof down- but your rational mind can’t stop you from clenching at the sight of such disrepair. The tiles sunken over the beams give the roof a decidedly corpse like quality; ribs taught on skin as the corruption pushes for complete collapse. Hopefully it can wait until you’re gone.

You pass to the next corner, confirming that the guard is not there waiting. Achingly slow steps, pushed as close to a run as you dare, take you further; moving in an odd hobbling sneak. No doubt you look quite ridiculous, but as the purpose is not to be seen, you don’t have much of a problem with that.

The square block, shadowed by the moon ahead, looks quite pathetic up close. It was clearly an afterthought of construction, siting like a rickety outhouse in the oddest of places. The technique of its construction doesn’t match the rest of the building, its square edges a poor contrast to the shoddy roof that bows away from it as though repulsed. Smaller bricks and exposed wood clash with the houses smooth stone and grey tiles, adding to its alien nature, and as the shade of it swallows you, blocking out the light of the moon and protecting you from sudden eyes, you almost feel kinship with something so invasive and unwanted.

Its door is shut. It looks old, warped and rusted as it is by time and weather. The sound of shifting wood come to you, but not by your hand, nor from within. Footfalls clunk wooden boards on the path ahead as the guard, now satisfied by his break, continues his march towards your discovery. Panic flares. You look around, but he isn’t upon you yet. While his footsteps are close, they have not yet taken him around the corner of the roof and into your sight. You open the door with a carefully muffled shove and slip into the dark of its rough alcove, almost toppling down its first step in your haste as the doors resistance suddenly gives out. Windmilling arms find brown brick and grey mortar, which crusts under your fingers as both of your hands reach out and press against the wall, **** to stop any sudden decent. The brickwork is coarse, but held together with the binding paste typical of the archipelago, one made of powdered seashells or some such, though you never had the interest to inquire. Here, on the walls of this ramshackle extension, it’s been so flamboyantly applied that it bulges between the bricks, and provides many handholds for you to use. In a short, sharp second though, it’s revealed to you that its quality has more in common with the rest of the roof than you thought. The piece you grabbed, holding you from darkness, breaks away quietly.

The symphony that follows -overtured by the wild expression of panic that twists your face- is a lurching moment of flailing uncertainly that sees you fall down the stairs as silently as possible. While you could have probably guessed the answer if asked, today you learn with absolute certainly that ‘falling down a set of stairs’ and ‘being silent’ are two mutually exclusive activities, though you do give a good try of it. Every fibre of your being suddenly feels geared towards making as little noise as possible; softening blows and absorbing impacts as they come from all sides. You wince only at the sound the wood makes as it clobbers you step by step, regret the scrape of the wall instead of the skin upon it, curse the clatter of dropped mortar, and as you finally get your feet under you, you curse the sound they make as well.

You didn’t fall far, or fast, and the door above you drifts slowly closed on its own. As it snuffs out the little light that followed you, it brings the quiet cacophony to a hair rising close with the unmistakable, long, rusted squeal of its hinges.

Without even brushing yourself off, you descend down the stairs in a far more orderly manner than you entered them, turning a corner and entering true darkness. Naturally, the sound of the guards once leisurely footsteps come charging for the door. Like your first use of it, it opens too fast to squeak, but this time a loud bang follows as it crashes into the wall that failed you. You go down step by step by step, quick and quiet, coming to the shape of a door. It’s closed, but lit beyond: the way to the buildings upper floor. The footsteps now above don’t follow immediately. You can almost picture him peering into the moonlit stares, wondering what could have happened. It’s not long before he follows though. You pass the upper floor and continue down to the ground floor, and he follows, again, stopping at the same door you did. Ahead, another door appears before you, similarly haloed in the dark by the flickering yellow light beyond. The ground floor. It’s hard to see, but it looks like you’re in a fairly narrow servant’s stairwell, with the stairs going up its sides and no handrail to keep you from falling to the storage below. The bottom looks flat, with no continuation to any cellar, and the space underneath the stairs you just descended looks vacant, if slight. In your quiet decent, the sound of a door opening and closing just above you is feels frighteningly close. The hope that he had left evaporates as the footsteps return, chasing you to the bottom.

You drop without noise to the very bottom and move to occupy the space beneath the stairs, quietly huddled in the dark as his feet knock above you. The man comes to a stop at the bottom and throws the door open, shining light into the narrow room. It highlights the dust, and the lack of any further decent or cover in the room. Your feet poke out into the light, lapped by the shadow he casts as he shifts and looks about. You don’t breathe, curled up below the bare old wood, huddled and still. You feel his eyes on you; you’d draw your blade if you could; if movement wasn’t forbidden in the tense moment you occupy.

“Tshhh.” He makes a frustrated noise and backs up, his shadow receding as he exits the room, until it’s finally swallowed by the closing door. His footsteps, muffled through the wall, retreat into the mansions interior.

You sigh heavily; all the panting breath you held back coming with a vengeance to claim the air it’s owed. You look out at the closed door in the dark, once more rendered to a rectangle of light bleeding through the cracks. Everything else is inky blackness, but you know he’s gone. Why would he stay downstairs? Why not return to his post? Unless he could tell there was an intruder. Remembering the noise you made, it would be hard for him not to know. In that case, he may be going for your target, his captain, in order to inform her of the intrusion! Should you follow him? Let him lead you there himself? You don’t have much time if you’re going to, his footsteps already faded after his exit. The seconds tick on with indecision.

You press your grazed and stinging hands under your arm pits and think quickly. Is it worth following him? You’re in the building now; a fact that leaves you quite pleased with yourself, despite the amateurish nature of the attempt. You spare a moment to smile as you begin to rub your bumped elbows with your scrapped palms. Everything has gone (mostly) to plan for now, and you can’t discount your own skill in that. Nevertheless, the paths before you now seem split between forward and backwards; upstairs or downstairs. You either follow the guard where he’s going, which is hopefully to his captain, or you can return upstairs to search there instead.

The upstairs you could search at your leisure, most likely, and it would keep you off the path taken by the guard. It would mean searching the mansion from nothing though, as having no leads to follow would leave you searching the upstairs room by room.

The downstairs, meanwhile, has a man you can follow to something he at least finds valuable enough to forsake his watch for. If you follow behind him, keeping an eye on him from a distance, you could also find out if you can expect a storm of angry pirates searching the place any time soon. Naturally, this also means it’s the only place you know for certain has a guard walking around in it; one who is probably already alert to the likelihood of intruders.

Risks and rewards below or slow and steady above? As the captin could be on either floor, you decide not to waste any more time,