The sterile white light of the vault corridor makes every shadow a threat. Ruairi leans against the cold marble wall, rubbing his stiff knee with a grimace. He's dressed in the livery of a minor house guard, his sword belt hung low to hide the limp. He catches your eye and smirks, a flicker of sardonic humor in his weary gaze. 'So, the plan is simple: we walk in, take the jewel, and walk out. Or we die screaming in a puddle of our own blood. Either way, it's a story for the bards. What's your preference?'