…attack like a wild animal!

Seeing red, you try to yank your restrained arms from his grip while bucking wildly with your body. You growl and snarl and look at him with hate filled eyes as his drunk fingers figure out the single button of your sleeveless yellow and red jacket. The thing that should mark you as allies is flung open, revealing your limited breasts, made more so by the flattening pull of the world. His free hand begins to maul your left bosom, uncaring of how unwanted his attention is.

“Nnnn!” You growl through gritted teeth, your tugging freeing one of your hands. You immediately use it to claw down his face, successfully this time, leaving three red lines that begin to ooze slightly with blood.

“Damn!”

With the curse, he re-restrains your hand above your head, fumbling in the struggle. As he leans forward to do so, you find a good way to knee him in the backside and choose the do so with all your might, again and again and again, getting in four solid hits and hearing four solid grunts. Your fifth kneeing seems to catch him in a soft spot that immediately sends a jerk of pain though him, and he sits back on your hips, your arms locked in a free for all. With a grunt and push of your arms, he bears down on you, collapsing forward so he is close to your face, and delivers a powerful head butt. You see it coming, mostly, and manage to turn your head to the side, avoiding a brutally broken nose but still getting knocked dizzy by the thicker skulled pirate.

Starry blackness fills your head for a moment, swirling and moving and sweeping any thoughts away you had, and when you open your eyes it’s just more stars and blackness. You look up at the night sky in dazed confusion, wondering where you attacker disappeared to. You hear a grunt, your body sliding a little across the ground by a pull on your feet. Wondering what could have caused this, you look up (or is it down?) and snap back to alert consciousness when you see your attacker drop your legs back onto the ground, trousers now pulled down to around you ankles. You look down the length of your body, and past your open top which displays your breasts to the world, you can see the black hairs of your pubes sitting like an island of its own between you pale, moonlit legs.

He comes back towards you and you aim your double footed kick for between his legs. Direct hit! Both heels drive into his hardening meat with eye watering strength and precision. It draws a low, strained gurgling sound out of him and causes him to stagger back several paces. Not enough. He’s not done. Seizing the opportunity, you put your hand on the ground beside you and begin to push yourself upright, pulling up your trousers with the other. Waves of nausea suddenly roll over you. You try not to pass out or throw up as the world seems less stable under your hand, dropping to both and staggering to a crawl. Your head pounds, vision blurs. Moment lost, the weight returns as your assailant pins you down, not straddling but lying on top of you with a great weight. The need to vomit increases as you realise his legs are between your own, forcing your knees apart as far as your now ankle wrapped trousers will allow. You try to move your legs, but find them pinned as his own laying on top of the trousers, pinning your thrashing, dragging feet to the ground. Your wrists are in his hands, pressing them against the dirt next to your head.

“No!” Your cry is quiet, despairing, cutting through the heavy mix of both your breathing. He begins to laugh.

Unable to move your limbs, your mind blanks before it steadily starts filling with terrible realisation. That this man will soon be inside of you; that he will seed your womb, and with the betrayal of your body’s alliance to the moons position, the seed will most likely take root. The terrifying reality of you raising a child of **** alone is intercepted by another; his promised punishment for fighting back. The image of you on a tavern floor with a man beneath you and a man on top of you, bent back and slack jawed for a third, flashes in your mind. You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling coarse nether hair scrape against your own as he aligns himself. You brace yourself for the inevitable. He thrusts.

Slap.

A light sound and a light impact.

You open your eyes to see the look of confusion in his. He surges forward again and succeeds only in mashing his limp member against your exposed sex.

“Awww common. Why now?” he mutters to himself, almost too quiet for you to hear.

He’s limp. His limp member dangles impotently against your entrance. Your relief cuts through all the mounting tension you feel, bursting it like a dam. You give a single involuntary laugh as all the horrors your mind created melt away.

His head snaps up from inspecting his failing anatomy and he looks you right in the eye. As brief as your laugh was it was definitely the wrong move. His face twists into a snarl as he reads all his insecurities in the single bark of laughter.

Releasing your left hand, he gives you a colossal open palmed smack to the face, turning your head right with the **** of it. Once again you briefly see stars, but you remain fully aware of his next move; he brings his knees up and places one on the outside of your left leg, letting the other moves up against your crotch. Kneeling over you, he grabs your chest and begins to maul your gravity flattened bosom.

He mumbles various obscenity’s to himself, along with repeating “Comon! Comon! Get hard ya bastard!” His palms smear you, pushing and pulling in unpleasant desperation. Unable to find purchase on your breasts, he sacrifices one hand and moves to his member in an attempt to manually stroke the life back into it. You thank the gods for the crippling aim of your foot.

You feign unconsciousness as he kneels over you, palming your right nipple and stroking himself vigorously, or trying to. Your luck won’t last forever; It would be better to use it while it’s still strong.

You move your hands from the side of your head down to your sides like someone moving in their sleep might. To sell the move, you also include a sleepy moan and move your head slightly as though turning in your sleep, watching him through the crack of your eye. He doesn’t watch your face. You reach to your exposed right thigh and hope your memory is correct. You don’t remember him seeing the dagger or feel him remove it but the light leather strips around your thigh could not have slipped his notice. Believing or uncaring of your covert actions, he goes from simply mashing your tit with his palm to pinching your nipple and pulling. Not expecting this sudden nipple pain, you cry out in shock and hurt, your ruse of sleep broken.

Your eyes open immediately and you see a triumphant smile on his face, feeling the soft tip of something hit your belly button as your fingers close around the stiletto’s hilt.

“It’s fucking time” he says jubilantly.

‘Indeed’, you think, drawing the dagger and plunging it into his side.

In a show of the universes love of sick parody, you pull out your dagger and thrust it back in him again and again, eliciting a squealing shriek of pain with each violent penetration. His quickly minced diaphragm turns wheezing screams into a pitiful mewling, then gasping and breathless silence. You don’t know how many times you stab his side, but you eventually realise that he has been dead for the last several.

You pull out your dagger and roll him off you to your right to stop the mess you made of his side from touching you. It doesn’t work particularly well. You lie on your back, gasping for air as though you have just run the length of this island many times over; you don’t know how long you were stabbing him, but your arm is very tired and your entire body burns with ache.

A groggy few seconds pass, which see you shuffle away from his oozing form. The bed of hardened compacted dirt slowly turns from carnal to charnel, muddying under his blooded body.

Examining yourself in the moon light, you see blood all over your midsection. His blood, fortunately. Your still ankle wrapped trousers are the first thing you correct; hurriedly pulling them up before anyone can turn the corner. You stop before they cover you completely. Your torso looks black in the moonlight and the bloods own weight pulls its shiny darkness down to your side in moon blackened ribbons. You stand, slowly, to keep the nausea at bay and not be tripped by your thigh high shorts, looking for some way to clean yourself up. To your revulsion, you see that your attacker had completely removed his trousers at some point in preparation for your ****, and find them after a quick search in a heap by the side of the road. Admiring the fullness of the almost sail like yellow material; you begin to use them to clean the blood off your skin.

They go far, and by the end of it, while you’re not completely blood free, you are at least dry and can pass for a somewhat dirty crewwoman. Your back was spared as the road is slightly slanted and the black streaks that slowly radiate from your attackers corpse slide towards a nearby doorway, gathering in a viscous shallow puddle. Remarkably, your stolen jacket only has some blood on the bottom right side and some spray spattered onto the inside. Thanks to its thin leather base and yellow and red design you think you can get away with it, especially in the dark.

You throw the dirty red trousers down and pull up your own, reaching to the man so you can extract, clean, and sheath your dagger, and take a proper look at the scene.

The assailant lies face up in the middle of the narrow street, eyes staring sightlessly at the stars. His foul body, now starting its march towards further foulness, lies as limp as the member that got so close. The slow flow had grown to a thick rivulet of his blood, connecting him to the doorway of the empty house, and it almost looks like the darkness within is reaching out to claim him. The street is empty, lifeless, and silent. Even the sound of the inn seems more muted than before. It’s the perfect place for an ambush. You really have to start listening to your intuition more often.

You slowly walk away, leaving him there, happy to never touch him again.

As you leave, your strait line grows crooked, until you lean upon one of the buildings with an outstretched arm. You can hear your own heart as it doesn’t slow down. Even after cleaning yourself off, it still hasn’t realised the moment is over; that you won, that you weren’t ****, that the villain lies dead. You take several deep breaths, feelings warring within you; the terror you felt, the joy of victory, the mindless anger and vicious satisfaction. At the time, it had felt emotionless; just something you needed to do, rushing by with no time to consider. Now they stand a little clearer in your mind, with little moments standing out as you think of them.

Your hands are shaking; the buzz of combat rushing through your veins, calling you to run or fight. You tell yourself you’ll probably feel different when it settles; you usually do after fighting for your life. You almost laugh at the thought, inadvertently sounding like some bards hero in your own head, with countless victories under your belt instead of foolish decisions. This incident will probably happen again in your nightmares. All the ‘if’s’ and ‘buts’ and ‘maybe’s’ are the type of things your dreaming mind loves to go over. You shudder to think that he will probably do to you in the dreaming world what he failed to do in the waking one.

You take another deep breath. Considering the task that is still ahead of you, you are content to leave the repair of such emotional damage until another day. Beating the conflicting and confusing emotions down into your core and locking them away, you manually enforce a sense of serenity within you, like some brutal regime. Your mother would say it’s not healthy, but it seems the most useful thing to do for the moment. You take another breath. They are all still rumbling within you, just below the surface, like distant thunder warning of a distant storm. Why do emotions have to be so difficult?

You push away from the wall and press on. Your head still hurts from its recent impacts; cheek stinging and probably quite red, while your temple throbs from the head butt it received. You tell yourself that the damage could be much worse.

A look down the narrower alleys tells you that you’re back on the main street or retracing your steps, and unwilling to go back, you pushing forward to the lip of the dark crevice. You see the road and a set of ornate stone gateposts at the end of it, leading further down a tree lined path to what must be the manor in the distance. You’re about to step out into the street when two things stop you in your tracks. The first is the sight of a large group of men wearing red and white, walking down the path towards you from the manor. The second is the gruff voice not an arm’s reach from your head, coming from the house you stand beside.

“There they are, took em long enough. Gime the lantern.”

You slowly duck back behind the corner and look for somewhere to hide. Finding a long since robbed wooden lean too that looks like it once held firewood, you duck undercover, staying very still and listening as hard as you can.

“You know we’re missing the party at the inn for this, right?” This voice is different from the first, more nasally, though that could just be the tone of his whining.

“Fuck off...You want some puss then go fuck yourself. Roland’s yellow bellies got not respect.” That was the first voice again, it was deeper in pitch and you get the feeling that its owner is as big as he is vicious. The last part about respect was also said in a way that makes you think he’s repeated it several times, like an old argument from which only the notes are needed to remind people who won it.

You hear the footfalls of the people coming down the path and a razed voice saying “What you three doin ere?”

The sound of three sets of feet move toward the voice.

The conversation shared between the three men and the large group seem muted and distant, but you do manage to pick out a few snippets. Apparently one of them was walking along and was knocked down by a group of at least twelve of ‘Roland’s lot’ (more than they could fight, naturally), who then proceeded to disrespect the whole of the Wendigo crew, Captain Washkin herself, and several of the group personally (and their mothers) before fleeing to their ship ‘like a bunch of bloody cowards’. This is, understandably, met with complete outrage by the group, whose more outspoken members follow it up with a series of increasingly outrageous slights on their persons.

‘Roland’s lot’ must refer to Captain Roland, a notorious if far from legendary pirate captain serving under Captain Washkin. He must have changed his colours; it wouldn’t be the first time in his career. ‘An angry little hothead’ you once heard him described, while Captain Washkin was always known to keep a devious, calculating air about her. Strange that their crews would be so different from their masters, like mirror images. Either way, it seems the two crews are definitely heading towards conflict. You only hope that it all takes place far away, on the other side of the island. Though if it were to borrow a few guards from around your target then that would be nice as well.

While you don’t want to stay here all night, you’re not sure if there’s a way to approach the house without being seen by them. There’s certainly the possibility of doubling around and approaching the house from another direction, but your brightly coloured disguise would alert any sentries they have on guard up there and you don’t fancy having a long conversation with them, especially while you’re still slightly bloody. A lone woman in ‘enemy colours’ could become the target of the groups vented frustrations, most likely, so walking past them isn’t exactly a wise move either.

Their departure will be soon anyway; they certainly aren’t going to stand about all night. You wait, listening in for any good gossip you can use, but unfortunately their predilection for exaggeration leaves anything they say in quite a bit of doubt. You continue to listen anyway, if only to stop thinking of ... other things.

As the night moves on your frustration grows; these pirates natter like a bunch of old women! Always talking about respect! Respect this and respect that. Naturally, it was limited to respect they were owed as they owe ‘nothin to nobody’, and while Captain Roland’s crew got the brunt of it, several other crews were evidently respect deficient as well. It’s as if they get dumber with every shared insight and story; a phenomenon you can very much believe as you feel your finely honed reasoning dulling with each second.

After what feels like an eternity but was most likely ten or twenty minutes, they walk down the street towards the inn and the docks beyond, their voices fading as they pass the corner. You peek out, checking to see if the street is empty and finding it so. You dart out and walk quickly past the stone pillared exit, wondering what happened to its missing gates and looking every direction at one. As you follow the path about another corner, walled in woodland, you see the mansion as soon as the village is hidden. There’s no mistaking it. It’s in an old style and has perhaps the air of neglect, but the old stones are large, the windows tall and plentiful, and its decadent old grandeur oozes an air of wealth and power. The path approaches from the side for some reason, so you see only the butt end of what is likely a long building. Many of the windows are dark, both for the lower and upper floor, but the glass within them remains unbroken and clear. You see no faces looking out, but there doesn’t need to be; the shadow of a guard walks the roof, passing the moonlight and the stars that silhouette him. He’s no doubt seen you. You’re glad you trusted your instincts; following the path is a lot less suspicious than walking from the woods.

The path in question goes from dirt to gravel as you follow it, as though elevated in its stateliness for its proximity to the building. It splits under the buildings moon shadow, one side going about the front and the other to the back, and you follow the wider well-trodden path to the former, as any visitor might.

The path leads to an alcove set into the front of the building, a sunken spot on its otherwise flat face. Leaning against the inner wall is a guard; a man with more mussels than you would think regular labour would allow, and a face of chiselled angles and unyielding expression. He wears baggy red and white clothes mostly covered with a slab of hard leather chest armour, painted in the same colours. An axe that dangles from his hip. You doubt you could carry it, let alone give it a swing.

While you hope he doesn’t share his fellow’s hatred of your pilfered colours, you do hope that he shares some of their stupidity. You mentally arm yourself with a dozen different excuses for why he should let you pass, walking to the door under his narrow eyed gaze. Oddly enough, he says nothing at all as you open the door and step through into the manor.