[WH] The Whitehall Heist

[Zarquon]

The Whitehall Heist

Characters Involved
Nuraava [Psychyn]
Doctor Geraldino [ImagenAshyun]
Fahd [Caravan]
Alexander [Whym]

†

Preamble

Rousing, rapturous applause greeted the announcement as the crowd stood as one, their hands coming together in rhythmic congratulations. A feast and a masquerade indeed? In the background, the time signature of the music changed to a hearty cantante as the symphony rolled through an undulating crescendo. A few of the noblesse giggled demurely to the proclamation, striking up lilted and musical conversations about the coming festivity. The stark counterpoint of deeper sonorous voices intertwine in a harmonious melody of voices.

In the back of the cavernous chamber, yet a few of the guests had more nefarious ideas. Stepping into the shadows of the alcoves, they depart with a calm formality, their movements swift and purposeful.

"There will be no better opportunity than this, Operator, and The Godfather would not be pleased if we do not procure the item." The sibilant voice came out almost in a hiss with a touch of malice.

"I understand, Messenger, and I am gathering a team to execute this." The voice came with a practiced calm, smothering beneath it roiling apprehension.

"Very well, get it done, or you will find yourself done. With a weighted shoe down the lake." The sardonic threat held a touch of light-heartedness, yet beneath the humor the malice was genuine.

"...right, consider it done."

†

Housekeeping Matters

The Whitehall Heist is an IC adventure-event for members of Whitehall. It revolves around the theme of stealing a single priceless item of the arts from a nobleman's manor; the painting being the Dance of the Seven Veil, painted by a great master and thought to be lost in the Second War when Stormwind City was sacked. As of the beginning, the noble family who holds it will soon have a celebration, a festivity of sorts. There are many ways for the 'team' to approach the 'puzzle' in order to obtain the end-goal of the painting; entering the mansion, finding it, stealing it, escaping from it safely, and returning it intact.

Envisioned are four participating members of the Guild, each with a different scope of capabilities and a team of disparate personalities out to accomplish a single goal. The rules are simple, and are as follows;

Skype is necessary in order to facilitate communication and RP throughout the course of this Forum RP adventure-event; for example, very broad and general idea of the successes of failures of your actions to guide your posts, so that the Forum RP does not pause or interrupt itself overtly.

It is meant to augment your in-game RP, rather than having to contrive a means of getting a majority of players online at once at a particular time. Hence, it is also fine that it isn't too fast-paced; a 'round' comprises of one post per players and the DM, with each round taking a course of 2 - 3 days. Should one player not post in that stretch of time, then the DM would merely continue with the ramifications of the other three player's actions. Skype will be used to further facilitate this, and push the Forum RP forward as smoothly as possible.

There is no standard 'format' for each posts; in fact, it is entirely possible to take a change of perspective and play it from a victim's point of view or a contact's point of view rather than your own character's.

You may changed the landscape, surrounding and environmental according to your ease and flow of RP. For example, if it makes sense for the Whitehall Retreat manor to have a bar, and you intend to have one, then simply include one in your IC post and there one is.

There is no maximum number of posts, and many could be made in situations such as a conversation or a duel between players.

Assuming that the thread begins to extend for a certain length, the first post will contain a Content Page which divides the event-adventure by milestones and story arcs, allowing swift movements in between scenes and arcs.

†

Initiation

You of Whitehall have recently had your day abruptly truncated and potentially ruined, depending on how much you had dreaded such a summons. A courier arrived with an expensive parchment carefully folded within a sealed envelope with a stylized "W"; the messengers might vary for different individuals; a dirty scrawny wretch holding it with trembling fingers; or a handsome courtier more fit for the cavernous chambers of nobility; or even a sly goblin with a faint smile of amusement on her face. Whomever it might be or however the method of delivery, the elegant script upon each letters are exactly the same;

Greetings,

You have been cordially invited to the Whitehall Retreat at the behest of the Architect. Your arrival is expected within two working days upon receiving this letter and has been arranged through the aforementioned means of transportation arranged at your closest location. Come alone, and bring everything that you might require.

We intently await your arrival. May the artifices of the high be torn down to raise the future of the low.

Sincerely yours,
The Operator

The means of transportation are tailored to each individuals, demonstrating a plethora of variation and predicating a poignant sense of haste. If teleportation is possible, then it is provided. If it is not, gryphons are hired. If it is not, other mercenaries are available to escort the agent to civilized territories.

By hook or by crook, as the dawning of the second day arises, the event-adventure begins upon the outskirts of a palatial estate that stands partially hidden by the shrouds of trees. Behind it spread a verdant meadow, but it is quite effectively encapsulated by forested areas. A humble and polite butler stands by the entrance, his posture cultured and welcoming as he invites the individual agents into the estate.

†

[ImagenAshyun]

Dr. Geraldino awaits at an outdoor cafe but a block away from the manor. The mask is lifted high enough on his face only far enough for his lips to wrap around the edge of the coffee cup. Hanging from his chair is a large bag, and his mare, Serenissima, awaited him with another strapped to her saddle. He's seated there, thinking as he read the letter. He knows the family. He knows the home. He even visited it once.

"I hate the Gregorios. I really do. But this... could be of use to me." He grins. He's plotting something, but no one would ever know. He pats his bag, feeling a rifle inside. He turns to his mare, who his strapped to a post on the other side of the small fence. "Any longer now. We'll meet. They won't know. I'll play along. Perhaps this could help me." He finishes up and lays the tip onto the table before grabbing his cane. He steps through the gate and mounts up. Serenissima's hooves clip and clop merrily as the doctor marches forth, ready to meet with the others.

[Yandere]

The occasional puffing and exhaling which was caused by Alexander's cigar smoking would be all that could be heard in the eerie silent of the night in Elwynn, his house in the very eastern parts, close to Redridge. He swirled the glass of wine he held in one hand before taking a sip, a quiet snicker escaping himself before his peaceful existence was disturbed by a knocking. With a groan, he lifted himself from his chair and headed towards the door, merely to find a find a rather neatly groomed Human messenger, carrying the sealed envelope.

"Sir Brennenburg." She greeted the man, the smirk carried on his lips answered by a sly smile of hers.

"And what might bring this one to an old man's house?" He asked, the silk of his shirt knitting slightly as an invisible hand trailed over it.

The messenger held out the envelope, offering it towards Alexander as out of sudden, a lash of a whip comes flinging towards the woman's hands who then, drops the envelope with a rather pained shriek. A figure of a succubus comes visible next to the sighing Sir Brennenburg.

"Miranda, there is no need for such barbaric behaviour." He replied towards the demonic being in his rich, deep tone which neared the pitch of a bass before bending down, reaching to take the paper between the silk of his gloves. The succubus released a scoffing noise, keeping her arm around the man and glaring at the female in front of him.

"...Excuses for the inconvenience." He replied to the messenger, giving a curt incline of his head towards the woman before shutting the door and carefully opening the envelope, the fabric of his gloves slipping over the surface of wax before breaking the seal, revealing the letter.

"At such a time, how...pestering." He mutters to himself as he read the letter, packing a bottle of wine and a box of cigars before descending into the night, making his way towards Whitehall manor.

[Psychyn]

Day or night.. It didn't seem to matter for these Whitehall representatives. Far from the human cities, Nura had believed to be safe for even those brief moments in Ashenvale. The woods were a perfect solitary place to practice, and the constant danger of either being shot by a Kaldorei or an Orc made it somewhat appealing. "It keeps you on the tip of your hooves." She'd have told herself, having made camp inside the forest.

With the bright moon high above her heads, she had trained. Constantly trying to improve her skills, to the point where she would not sleep and barely eat. She had to endure.. She had to be quicker. She had to be -better-.

And she would have turned out that way, had it not been for an awful interruption. "Whitehall." she had grumbled upon seeing the messenger, who had blinked herself into existence. With a single switch of stances, she turned to face the cowled woman, greeting her with an defensive growl.

"Oh hold your hooves will you? I'm just here to deliver a letter."

The magician conjured up a spell as she did not dare to get close, and with seemingly no effort a sealed off letter drifted through the air to the Draenei.

"Well don't just stand there, take it!"

Nuraava growled defiantly again, but knew she had no choice in the end. Naaru, why hadn't she stopped at ten gold? A thought, much too late to be of use now. As her plated hand took the letter, crumpling the pretty envelope humans so seemed to take pleasure from, Nura could not be bothered to take her gloves off. Tearing half of the envelope apart, along with part of the script she began to read.

Spoiler:

*The start and part of the first sentence was torn off*

- invited to the Whitehall Retreat at the behest of the Architect. Your arrival is expected within two working days upon receiving this letter and has been arranged through the aforementioned means of transportation arranged at your closest location. Come alone, and bring everything that you might require.

We intently await your arrival. May the artifices of the high be torn down to raise the future of the low.

Sincerely yours,
The Operator

The magician would tap her foot impatiently as Nuraava read the letter. When the Draenei inspected the other side of the paper she rolled her eyes and opened her mouth once again.

"Hurry up already! I got other people to teleport as well. What? You think you are the only one? Move it tail-swagger."

A comment too far, as in the next moment Nura's eyes narrowed. "Fine.. I'm coming." she replied as she slowly began to collect her weaponry and break off the camp. It wasn't much to collect in the end, but she made sure that every movement of her was deliberately slower than usual.

Turning around to the magician after, Nura casually walked over to the woman. A faint smile adorning her face for the time, before the distance closed between the two.

"Finally done? For -" The Magician's sentence was rudely interrupted, as she staggered back in pain. A few teeth laying on the ground with an satisfying trickle of blood on both the magician's lips and Nura's plated glove.

"Are we going to move?" The Draenei asked in an surprising cordial tone, her hand gesturing to the woman who was taking her time on the ground. "If we wish to arrive in time.. You better make a portal. And you better do it -silently-." A growl enforced her stance after the last words, as Nura watched the magician get back on her feet.

When the portal finally appeared, the Draenei took an additional side step in the magician's direction to make her back off. The slyest of smirks on her lips. "You enjoy these woods," Her hand waved dismissively to the trees. "I bet the Kaldorei that watched me for days will make sure of that."

As Nura vanished through the portal, an last shout could be heard from the magician along with the sound of arrows flying through the wind. It was clear; they had not taken kindly to the usage of the Arcane within their lands. The Draenei quietly chuckled as her hooves reached new soil, before setting her eyes on the butler that welcomed her.

He was met with a simple cold glare, only barely managing to open the door in time, before the armoured Draenei would have surely bashed it open herself.

What am I getting into? She thought to herself before folding her arms, staying near the entrance of the manor.

[Caravan]

Night had descended upon the desert and though the winds howled over the sands, it was a rather clear evening. Fahd sat upon the lush carpet in his tent, a knife in one hand and a letter in the other, as he mused. The poor goblin messenger had been dumped down the nearest dune, probably basilisk fodder by now, and the man scowled at the thought that perhaps he should have asked, first, before cutting the creature down.

It was only a brief thought.

Fahd sunk the blade of the knife into the sand before adding more oil to the lamp. He rubbed his beard, frowning at a few of the more difficult words. 'Who' and 'why' nagged at him, but he pushed the doubts aside. It only mattered that the letter was here.

Two days' time was not so gracious as he would have liked, so he began preparing what supplies he would need. He kissed his sleeping wives' foreheads and looked in on his children before blowing out the lamp. He left word with the Caliph's advisor of his summons, saddled his horse, and left for the small goblin port as the slim crescent of the moon began its ascent.

The ensuing boat trip and ride across the Kingdoms would have left a weaker man with a more sour disposition. Before approaching the Manor, however, Fahd adjusted his turban, combed his beard, and changed his clothes. With the letter in hand, he strode towards the door with confidence.

"Excuse me---" began an attendant, who held out a gloved hand in alarm at the Wastewander's approach. Fahd looked at the boy with disdain, holding up the letter.

"Your Architect. He is expecting me." The man's voice was colored, but not oppressed, by his desert accent. His jaw tightened as the boy did not make any immediate action to move. Fahd thrust the letter into his hands, "I do not have time to wait on your incompetence. Let me pass."

The attendant stammered as the giant Wastewander pressed a hand against his chest and moved him aside. Without so much as a glance back at the boy, Fahd pushed open the door and strode into the foyer of the manor.

[Zarquon]

For the disparate group of operatives, the majestic gates swung open soundlessly to reveal a commodious hallway that stretched until it ends in an imposing spiral staircase that led upwards. Dominating the center stage of the hallway was a long, mahogany table that sat a a single man at the opposite end.

He held himself with an imperious stature that was counterpoint to his scrawny figure, introducing himself only as the Operator, his eyes blank and cold with an impassive gaze. He seems to be fuming internally, and when he glances up from a crimson docket held in his gnarled fingers he looked as if he sought to strangle all four of them where they stood. Exhaling a hiss at their approach, the sinuous man hunched forward and growls a greetings, "Welcome."

His tone was more akin to gravel crushing against sandpaper than any cordial invitation.

And then, abruptly, he tosses the docket away from him almost with disgust, sliding parchments of papers towards the group. Expositions, they held; pictures, graphs and even a map or two, all coinciding with the narrative that the Operator fell into;

"The Gregorio House, as one of your ranks have already known of, is a House famed for being patrons of the arts and collectors of items pertaining thereof. A few years ago, words began to reach our sources that they had been steadily and significantly increasing the amount of mercenary guards protecting their estate; we dismissed it originally, as it was gradual and did not raise much suspicions. Recently, however, we had begun to come to a different conclusion."

The Operator curls an edge of his lips into a grotesque smile. The chandelier swaying above the table, casting a mixture of flickering, moving light and shadow, gave it a sinister quality. He leans forward and plucks a parchment with a picture drawn upon it, planting it in the center of the table with a sibilant exclamation; "The Dance of the Seven Veils."

Vulgar philistines, who might have only heard rumors of it, mistakenly believe the Dance as a mere strip-tease, but it is far more than that, for each of the seven veils has its own symbolism and the ritual removal as a triumph of life over death. It is a celebration of the living and a condemnation of the power of mortality to stifle the uniquely joyous freedom of life and ecstasy. Examining the painting, on the other hand, one could see where the crude reputation was derived from; a stilled scene of the sixth veil - the sixth curse -, which was the affliction of childnessness, that particular scene was a celebration of sexual love, marriage and parenthood. The eroticism fairly brimmed from Di Lombardi's painting.

"The Dance of the Seven Veils was a painting by the great master Adolfo Di Lombardi over a century ago after a famous journey undertaken by him to the deserts of Tanaris, where it was said that he spent almost a year with the Tanari. The painting was to be one of his few masterpieces, and carries an exorbitant price in the world of the arts amongst the nobles that collect such priceless works."

Around the disparate group and the Operator, a few servants begin to enter the hallway, resting atop their palms trays of beverages or light snacks of all assortments. Glasses of vintage Northshire Red to finely decanted Dalaran White; from Arathorian Scotch to austere warm milk, were all provided. Small ornate chinaware holds light delicacies, exquisitely made and vivid in their diversity and flavors. The Operator paused in his briefing, waiting with barely concealed impatience for the facade of cultured formality to be done with.

Upon the departure of the servants, he punctuates his words coldly, "And the painting is in the hands of the Gregorio."

Making to stand as the heavy, wooden chair screeched a protest against the paneled floor, he tugs at the end of the his sleeve collars. "Quite unacceptable. Your mission is one of retrieval; the painting must be retrieved and procured for Whitehall." He turns to leave with a soft exhalation, "I will be passing on the next stage of the briefing; the mission details, to my secretary."

And without further ado, the Operator strides out of the hallway.

A long moment of stilled silence would descend; an impromptu break of nothingness as the brief wait for the arrival of said secretary begins.

[Psychyn]

The Muscle who had attempted to linger near the entrance was quickly forced to approach. Each step was placed with a certain caution, keeping to the side of the room with her back away from her company whenever possible. As she heard the cracking of a voice, her eyes turned to the man that welcomed her. Naaru...Humans and their pleasantries.

Nuraava straightened, her pair of narrowed eyes sizing up the Operator before proceeding a likewise greeting with the rest. Making a mental note of their faces, visible armour and last but not least ; Weaponry. The grim darkness of the room itself did not made her feel welcome at all, and her stance reflected that as she slid her hands on the hilts of her own weaponry. Listening, listening to that rubbish chit-chat humans were fond off. Can’t they ever get to the damn point?, she had found herself thinking, as her expression quickly grew bored.

Alas, she was here and she was stuck. "I should just start bashing skulls in already.. Get it over with." An irrelevant whisper to herself, that got interrupted from taking up more of her mind as a servant would walk over to her. On his plate, he offered several drinks and food; Naaru, how it all looked terrible from Nuraava’s point of view.

Seeing what appeared to be scotch, in naturally an glass that was only filled with half of what it should be, the Draenei moved both hands and took a glass in each hand. Catching the servants surprised look; Nuraava let forth an low growl, telling him off. In one swift motion, Nuraava sniffed the glass in her right hand before tossing the content (with the glass) nonchalantly into a trough of blossoming lilies beside her. Nothing happened; A slightly satisfying idea. As her eyes turned back to the group, she downed the glass in her left hand before dropping that alongside the other in the trough.

Managing to catch her part in the mission, she could already imagine what the upcoming tasks were. At least her involvement didn't require her to be much of a talker, or so she hoped. Her arms folded as she stayed to the side of the room, keeping her back straightened and chin slightly raised. A cautious, uninviting stance.

[ImagenAshyun]

The Doctor observed the Operator's features, his hazel eyes narrowing behind the lens of his beaked mask. He remained seated the whole time, his weak legs unable to keep him standing. He clutched his cane tightly, thoughts already running through his mind. A grin. It's not visible, as that blasted beak disguised it. But it's there, and it's plotting. A heist.... pah. His legs are useless for this, but he can surely do something. But he'd rather hear from the secretary first.

"The Dance of the Seven Veils". He knows that painting, he've seen it before. He even remembers which room it was hanging in, as well as the circumstances around the time. It was a little over twenty years ago--his daughter wasn't even born yet. There was a party. Guests. The Gregorio were throwing a party without full knowledge of its guests. The Doctor wondered how the Operator gathered all this information by himself. He would like to ask questions later... but first, the painting.

He sees the treats. He ignores the snacks and takes for a single glass of water. He lifts his mask high enough only to reveal the face from the nose down--ulcers all over the skin, cracked lips, crooked teeth, and a deformed chin. He cannot show his whole face--such is a dangerous move. Especially if he is to run into the Gregorio.

I am ready, he thinks. This shall be interesting.

[Yandere]

The Scholar let his predatory gaze trail along the insides of hallway as the grand doors opened, an usual smirk displayed upon his lips, a cigar smacked inbetween them. His eyes were attracted by the staircase which led upwards before it fell upon the man which sat at the mahagony table. He entered, one hand resting behind his back as he held his cigar in the other, his hands being covered in their usual silken gloves, blowing the smoke which had gathered into the room. Briefly, he casted his gaze upon the masked figure which was sitting, the Doctor before his attention snapped towards the Operator. A quiet snicker escapes him as the hiss rang through the room, his voice not lowering Alexanders amusement during this ordeal.

As the name of the Gregori family fell, thoughts flew through the Scholar's mind, often had he heard that name before, nothing but mere rumours and bickering in his eyes, too long had he been sticking his nose into studies. But he would catch up on that in time, easily. As the man began to spoke of the Tanari, Alexander was reminded of that girl, the one he was task to break. Such a nice being. However, his attention swiftly snapped back towards the Operator, catching up his words.

Alexander moved his hand from his back as the servants with the snacks and drinks appeared, his hand swiftly reached for a glass of scotch. He inclined his head towards the servant as a gesture of gratitude, exchanging the glass for the stump of his cigar. The glass was raised to his lips, letting a tad bit slip inside his mouth, twirling the liquid around to savour the taste before finally swallowing. He smacked his lips together, joy displayed upon his lightly made-up features, merely a slight amount of concealer used in an attempt to hide some of his wrinkles. Idly, he twirled the glass around as the Operator paced out of the hallway, a quiet snicker was yet again heard, escaping his lips. He remained fairly in the middle of the room, occasionally sipping on his scotch and awaiting the arrival of the secretary.

[Caravan]

The assassin cupped the glass of warm milk between his hands as he leaned against the back of the chair. He regarded the company closely, taking mental notes and assessments as he did so. The Draenei stuck out most to him, and he stared long at her, curious as to what manner of creature she was. The Doctor and the Scholar were noted, but not entirely dismissed. His musings were abruptly interrupted by the speech of the Operator.

The Dance of the Seven Veils. He took a sip of the milk, an eyebrow raising slightly. He directed his focus to the papers, but he had neither heard of this painting nor of the Gregario family that reputedly held it. He was, however, quite familiar with the dance. Metaphorical, yes, but done correctly it was also such a treat to the eyes...

Fahd swirled his glass for a few moments before he mused aloud, "Why have a painting when it pales in comparison to the real thing?" The idea that an image freezing but a moment in the dance could be priceless brought a smirk to his face. He shrugged and continued to listen and observe as the Operator continued his speech. When the Operator left, Fahd frowned and regarded the company once more, patiently waiting for the secretary's debriefing. A job was a job, even if it was to procure something 'useless.'

[Zarquon]

Muted by distance, an orchestral piece began to play from an exquisite gramaphone. The symphony of music had an undulating ebb and flow that plucked at the heartstrings of those who listened to it, a hearty and jaunty piece yet one so laced with an undercurrent of melancholic regret and longing. The melodious classical suffuses the manor, reaching a crescendo - And becomes punctuated by angry words and a barely suppressed inhumane wail.

Ignoring the shriek the music simply rolls on like an apathetic pressure, smothering the pleas. Another shrill, ear-splitting scream broke through, only to be abruptly silenced.

Unruffled without a hair out of place, an elegantly dressed woman hurried into the cavernous chamber, a broad and pleasant smile plastered on her face, "Ah, you must be the team of operatives for the heist. Delightful. My apologies for being late, but someone who owes us a sizable debt thought that fleeing to Kalimdor will allow him to escape our reach. We are painfully debasing him of that notion." The secretary gives The Muscle a meaningful look and a cheery wink.

Her heels form rhythmic clicks against the wooden panels of the floor as she approaches the table.

Dockets and documents were tucked under her arms and she gratefully removed those to place them on the table. Breezily, she begins without much of a preamble, "House di Gregorio will be having a feast, a celebration, in three days to celebrate the birthday of an influential member in their family. There is no better chance to procure the object of our desires than then."

Beaming with a glower on her face, pausing only to allow another inhumane lamentation to shatter the music. Uncaring, the orchestral piece simply reconstitutes itself and rolls forward again.

"There are quite a number of approaches, and it is entirely up to your team depending on what you deem fit. You may decide to carry out the operations during the feast itself or some time after it, though we would advise against carrying it out before as it might spoil some splendid celebrations." She bowls forward without thought for the tongue-in-cheek aspect of that statement, plucking a glass of pinot noir from a tray and raising it to her sanguine lips.

Another scream.

She gestures towards a gray file. "We have contacts from a small establishment of alchemists that will be able to concoct a curious poison that will assist you, should you require it."

A vague wave towards a red file. "A front catering service owned by us by the name of Food-For-Thoughts Incorporated might be able to allow one of your team access into the manor before the feast."

She steps forward, placing the glass down on an orange folder. "A man by the name of Robert Wiles serves as a guard in the manor, but owe us a rather hefty debt due to his nocturnal practices. He will prove invaluable for reasons obvious, but we would quite like to keep him as he will be a source of future information."

Pausing only for a breath and another scream to lace her speech, she soon continues with a jerk of her chin towards a matt-black docket. "The di Gregorio gallery of paintings is curated by a man named Abramio Greco, and by the Light don't even ask me about those ridiculous names of theirs." She snorts derisively, "Point is, he will be headed for his annual visit to his mother in Westfall; if you can intercept him, you might be able to persuade him to tell you where the location of the painting actually is in the manor."

Glowering at the four, she reaches the conclusion of her speech, "And try not to screw up this operation, or there would be hell to pay." Her caveat was punctuated by a final, haunting note that harmonized darkly with a last lingering scream.

Deathly silence followed, as she waits patiently for any questions.

[ImagenAshyun]

The Doctor examines the company around him, his eyes hidden behind the lens of his ask as he scrutinizes those who would be his colleages. The Assassin? He hopes he's good. The Muscle? Hopefully she's not a rash one. The Scholar? Now he's curious about the fellow with the cigar... but ah. He is distracted. He turns up to the secretary, the herbs stuffed inside the ominous beak distorting the depth and tessatura of his voice.

"Do you, perchance, have a guest list of the party?" he asks. He leans back on his chair, knees perpetually bent but ankles crossed. He rests his cane on his lap, the beak pointed towards the secretary. "There may be problems if certain individuals are present. I can perhaps also help plan our role in this heist." He eyes the others again. He leans foward, gloved fingers gripping the hem of his long coat. He lifts it up, showing his legs, dressed within form fitting trousers and comfortable slippers over black leggings. He did not do this to show his fashion sense, no--he did it to show the shape of his legs... or lack of them. Thin, almost disappeared calves. The knees are knobby and bent, ankles swollen, shins crooked and weak. The legs of a cripple.

"It is unlikely I can be in charge of the actual swiping... but I can provide support." He motions to a medicine bag that rests at the feet of his chair. It is sealed, but very stuffed. "There is no need to provide poisons and such--I can already provide. I am also well-versed in sedatives and paralyzing poisons, and despite the uselessness of my lower body, I can hide well and stay hidden. Should you need a sniper or shooter, I have my rifle and my blunderbuss." He combs the length of his beak delicately, lost in thought before he continues. "I have some familiarity with the diGregorio Manor. They have a chimney there that warms the lobby, and some masonry stoves in certain rooms. I have herbs that, when burned, its smoke creates a sedative effect. It's only strong enough to knock out individuals under a certain weight, so larger men, such as some mercenaries, I'd imagine, wouldn't be affected as much. But it can certainly cull down the number of pursuers if we have guests sleeping over, or the party lasts far too long."

He pauses, glancing at his partners. "That's an idea. If you have others, please provide. I am here for support... but for the love of all that is holy, sacred, and sane, don't assign me the actual theft."

[Psychyn]

The Muscle returned the look with a cold glare of her own. As she saw the wink however, she could not restrain herself entirely as an hostile, louder growl escaped from her lips. Her hands turned to fists for a brief moment, straightening once more as she kept her eyes on the secretary for quite a while.

"You just made my list human." she mumbled impatiently to herself, stepping closer to look at the documents although her body language showed her hostility with each step. Knuckles cracked silently, finally averting her gaze off the human she was planning to get even with sooner or later. Her gaze darted to The Doctor, sizing up the crippled leg. Weakling. He won't be hard to take down.. The smallest of smirks appearing on her face, letting out a mocking comment: "Took an arrow to the knee there, human?" She shook her head after, amused with herself apparently before continuing. "We will not need any fancy tricks.. Just send me in, and I'll make it a party nobody will ever forget."

Her gaze turned to the documents, having found renewed interest in them. Hearing the ideas concerning the red file made her raise an eyebrow, shaking her head before she even realized it. Getting in would be fine, bashing skulls would be great, and she wouldn't even need the help of others. Though something was missing.

"Not without a disguise." she had said, louder then intended as she quickly let forth an defensive growl. Apparently a thought being spoken aloud, hopefully not one that would come back to haunt her. Folding her arms, she raised her gaze and straightened her back, making herself seem taller - and hopefully, more threatening. Though, one could perhaps spot from the glint in her eyes that the Draenei for once, didn't seem to be entirely confident with what she had just spoken. Her tail moved casually from one side to the other; waiting, with the ball in their court now.