promenade ; elevator
Boots clicked against the floor as he walked, a confident stride which had only briefly been touched by concern, by doubt, before it had dissolved into obscurity like the ghosts of those who had once tread upon these same floors. He adapted easily, l'assassino, and he did not bat an eye at his surroundings. He knew the rooftops of his home like he knew how to breathe and he could navigate them blind, but here or there he was still an assassin, still part of the Order, and he would hold fast and true to his vows. He would not forsake them.
White and red and silver, the garb of the Brotherhood, his cape slung over one shoulder, pointed hood pulled over his head, and his hidden blades tucked safely away in his gauntlets until he should have need of them. He amused himself by leaping upon the railing, as swift and nimble as a cat, and walked along the edge with perfect balance until he caught sight of the elevator and swung himself down to the ground once more. He had no need of such a contraption but he entered regardless, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed over his chest as he waited for the doors to close and the descent to begin. Whatever he found there, below, he would be prepared for regardless.