By the time they get settled on the plan and on the move to carry it out, the sun has set and a new moon's night has fallen, casting the familiar avenues of the village in an eerie darkness. It is still and quiet as they make their way north to the smithy, with no sign of either patrolling guards or other townsfolk who might sound the alarm.
It is not a long walk to Harper's home, and they arrive in good time, gathering around his gated yard while Felix takes Sicarius a ways away to keep watch.
"I'll take a look inside really quick, wait here," Horace whispers to the others, stepping lightly up to the house.
Horace:
Move Silently: 1d20 + 8 = 9 (Critical Failure)
Hide: 1d20 + 8 = 11
Harper:
Listen: 1d20 + 2 = 10
Spot: 1d20 + 2 = 13
Scampering off with practiced ease, Horace goes to vault the gate, only for the toe of his boot to catch catastrophically on the lip of the fence as he clears it, sending him crashing to the earth with a yelp. He immediately bites his lip and rolls right under the house's window, hoping Harper won't notice.
He notices.
"WHAT'RE'YE ABOUT?!" Even muffled by the stone and glass between them, the fury in the smith's voice is palpable. Within seconds, he emerges from the doorway with a two-handed mace in hand, restrained from a murderous charge only by the number of assailants occupying his yard.
He clutches the weapon in a posture of imminent violence, but does not make any move yet.
Cold silence has a tendency
to atrophy any sense of compassion
between supposed lovers.
Between supposed brothers.