Her progress was slow, but being physically fit and having an easy time climbing a rope were two different things. As she'd demonstrated. His arms were aching because the rope wasn't anchored his body, but it was that or fall to his miserable and untimely death. He assumed it would be untimely. Maybe this was how it was always supposed to end and he was just dreaming to think otherwise. Skandra managed to catch the windowsill with one hand, on what would have been the first floor. Aeotha had tried to climb a bit higher to make it easier on herself, only to find that it was making it worse.
So as he climbed into the house, Skandra took the rope with him, pulling it through the naked gap. His feet were resting on what would have been the wall as he did - this window was close enough to the corner that he could stand comfortably without straining to reach anyone or anything. And now that the rope was being pulled into the house, she would hopefully have an easier time climbing in after him.
There was furniture strewn about, shattered glass galore, and no light save whatever Aeotha made once she was inside. Skandra was peering into the darkness in the vain hope of seeing something. Bedsheets patterned with stars were offensive to his sight, but they were real, and they were covered with blood. Whatever had interrupted this evening had been made worse by the violence which followed. The inhabitants of this place were probably dead.
And they were in a world of hurt.
"Hurry up," he hissed; the rope was wrapped around one of his arms three times, and he was doing everything he could to keep it steady.