…go upstairs and face the man in room 3E.

You quickly scratch the idea of poison. The reckless action would kills some of these degenerates for certain, but their leaders would go on to plague the world; you can’t risk your mission like that. Besides, you may be able to come back if you can quietly cut the head off this organisation, figuratively if not literally. The backdoor seems so open and exposed, the crowd before it holding all manner of hidden dangers, and the longer you look, the more you realise that you’re not going through it. If you can see it from here, past the crowds and the revelry and the fervour of the room, then the mutton chopped man could keep an eye on it from anywhere. Nevertheless, you take the time to run through it in your mind.

If he’s by the door then he could simply grab you and yell. If he or his friends are outside then they would simply have to grab you once you left. If it’s just him, ready to follow or ambush you further into whatever alley is out there, then it’s the same as going upstairs anyway. If you go up and play along, even for a moment, then you have the element of surprise.

You weigh up the risks of noise, in room or street, -screams and struggles measured against the room’s cacophony - and note that a yell outside, male or female, could summon just as many pirates, perhaps even quicker than the third floor. The only difference is you wouldn’t be cornered, though even that is not guaranteed.

No, you have made your decision and mentally prepare yourself for a fight. You killed the man on the beach quick and easy enough; the challenge simply continues. The thought that making your way to the region’s most wanted criminal would be easy never crossed your mind, and when it comes time for you to end her life, it may be in equally trying circumstance. This is mealy another unfortunate trial by fire on your pirate killing path.

You stand up and ready yourself to go upstairs, briefly turning to the man you have been ignoring as he talks about sea shells or something. You interrupt with a few words, cutting him short.

“I have to go.”

He looks hurt but also concerned, leaning forward and talking at a quiet volume for the room.

“You have that look again. You sure you’re alright?”

You want to say something like ‘ask me in ten minutes’ but settle for a brisk,

“Yes, thank you I’m fine,” before heading for the stairs. They seem so far away, and so exposed, as if walking to them screams your intension to the whole room. You don’t know if the eyes you feel watching you are real or exists only in your mind. No, considering your ‘host’ they are almost certainly real, and almost certainly track your every heavy step upward. You try to make them convincingly beaten and resigned, finding it all too easy.

You climb up the stairs and onto the dimly lit first floor balcony, turning right and seeing a row of doors, followed by another set of stairs leading higher up into the building. A couple of people seem to be gathered outside of one of the doors ahead, and from the child like lettering scratched into a nearby door (1A), you would guess they stand outside room 1D. The duo of semi excided bodies -a man and woman- look inside with interest, but the path of the balcony is wide enough that they won’t hinder you, and they don’t even notice you as you approach. From the numbers, room 3E should be on the top floor, above the far side of the bar, and above all the noise and eyes of the inn. A private spot where anything could happen.

You walk across the balcony corridor, aiming for the stairs beyond the open room. The noises that greet you as you approach the door speeds your heart with their awfulness; the sound of gagged screaming and crying, both male and female, ring in your ears. The mother and son. You try not to look in, knowing that whatever you would see would be beyond your power to stop.

You pass the door.

You look in.

A group of people line the walls, looking at the young man and older woman on their hands and knees in the middle of the small room. Reading the scene from left to right, you first see a naked man thrusting into the rear of the woman, taking her like a dog would take a bitch. His movements at her behind violently rock her back and forth, sending her dangling breasts swaying with the ****, while at her head is a woman. She has long grey hair but doesn’t look very old; possibly, she is even younger than the tragic mother whose head she is holding, one hand tangled in her long hair while the other covers the woman’s crying mouth, forcing her sight to look at the boy facing her, her likely son. The young man’s mouth is similarly muffled by the hand of an expressionless dark haired boy about the same age, holding his head up to match the other woman. That muffled face is bright red and tear streaked, with eyes tightly closed. He juts forward rhythmically as a man behind him takes him like his mother.

The sight of a man violating another man throws your mind for a loop. Are these people like dogs, so eager to hump that nothing around them is safe? What next, the furniture? The young man screams as the large hairy man behind him mines his behind for pleasure, while his mother cries, not for her own violation, but for his.

The grey haired woman, wearing the red and white of a Wendigo pirate, talks above it all, speaking loudly and menacingly enough to be heard, and pouring her words directly into the poor woman’s ear.

“...and now all yer little bitch daughters are gettin fucked. The only one o ya brood, includin you, wot wont be gettin a fully belly tonight’s gonna be that barnacle faced bitch you call -you called- a son. Boy whores go fe cheap, so they do. ‘Whore holes’ boss is gonna ave to work im arder an longer than the rest o yus.”

She smiles, looking over the wailing woman’s red hair at both the boy and the rooms other occupants. It’s a move that shows you that she is entirely missing her left eye, leaving a gaping hole leading into her skull hollow socket, long since healed but no less grotesque. It makes your already revolted stomach contract slightly with its sudden and unexpected appearance, or lack thereof.

She continues to talk to the already very distraught woman, seeming to soak in her misery with each vicious word.

“Look at ya little whore son. Recon she’s startin to like it. Guess it’s true what they say, always bloody the first time.” She nods at her assistant, and the young man holding the sodomized captive forces his head up further, highlighting the legs streaked with blood below. Seen by all, the red head is lowered once more, the man behind continuing unabated. The grey haired Cyclops seems to delight in the woman’s suffering. She smiles a constant, vile, hateful smile of delight, widening at the fresh cry’s and wails against her hand.

“An wat about ya littlest whores? Eh? Down in the whore house already, no mum to help em. All them men. You know, some folk go mad for the small meat. Frenzied. Like dogs. Specially if they got a pussy to fuck...Don’t know what it is about em: deviants like that. Maybe it’s the lack o tits that gets em hard? Or just tight little ‘oles? Either way, recon wat you an this whore is goin throughs a fuckin picknick-”

You stop listening. Taking a last glance at the face of pure evil, you walk away, rage boiling within you. Your thoughts run through option after option, but no matter how you look at it, there is no way to stop it. No way to save them.

You make a vow as you walk up the stairs; you will see her hang for her crimes. When the creature that can call that monster its crewwoman is dead then all these insects will scatter in the light. A grey haired woman missing one eye will not be difficult to find.

The second floor appears empty and you take the nearby stairs up to the third. A deep breath wipes away your thoughts and doubts, filling you with righteous purpose; you have never been in a better frame of mind to kill someone. You feel tingles run through your hands as you approach room 3E. You feel the stiletto strapped to your leg, ready, weighing nothing.

You walk in and find the room empty.

There’s a flicker of movement behind you, by the far stairs you just climbed, as a man approaches your position. It’s him. You enter the room fully, committing to its embrace. It’s fairly narrow, or feel such, with a bed, a cabinet, and a shuttered window clearly closed and bolted. You face the door and stand up straight, pushing out your arms in a stretch before generally loosening your joints for the coming showdown. The notion of it being anything else doesn’t enter your mind.

He walks in and closes the door,

“Smart move whore.” He gestures to your leather jacket with a tick fingered hand. “Open it. Show me yer tits.”

Your heart pounds, anticipation winning over fear. So what if a dead man sees your breasts? Here, they are mealy a useful distraction. You remember to school your expression, settling on one of fearful acceptance that you hope doesn’t look too fake, before timidly flicking the button of you jacket and spreading it, revealing your small mounds. Lure him close, get his eyes on them, ram the dagger into a vital spot. Sounds good; you can’t wait to live in a world with one less piece of pirate scum in it. The trick may be lowering his guard enough for him to approach. What else are you willing to show?

Unexpectedly, he charges across the room, hunches down, and puts your whole right breast into his mouth before you can react. Caught completely off guard, you reach down into the side of your trousers and grab the dagger just as he puts his left hand behind your back to hold you in place and starts to suck hungrily on your breast, circling his warm wet tongue around your sensitive pink nipple, and tickling your sensitive skin with a moustachioed lip. You cry out in shock and disgust, the pressure of his mouth trying to suck your whole breast off your chest. Your dagger wielding right hand come up to his back just as his right hand reaches around to your behind, roughly sliding down the back of your trousers and gripping your pert cheek, kneading it like fresh dough. Not good! If you stab him right now then he could bite down and do some serious damage to you. You put your left hand on his chest and push him away, succeeding only in staggering back yourself against his stocky weight. Your breast comes out of his mouth with and audible pop and his hand slides around your waist, running to the front of your hips instead and clawing for its goal. His back is lost to you.

“Oh am gonna fuck you so hard...” His gravelly voice rumbles as close to a whisper as its likely able to get. He slides his hands through your lower hairs as he leans in to kiss your face.

“Me first.”

You slam the dagger into his left side.

The sole reason for his existence seems only to do everything you don’t want him to do, and true to form, he bellows out in a loud scream of pain, pierced guts not enough to keep him quiet. Just a thumb length angled up and you could have hit the diagram, you think. Still screaming, he grabs your jacket and throws your small form full bodied across the room, smashing you into the cabinet and causing it to explode in splintering wood, more from poor construction than true ****. It’s a blow that still leaves you winded and your back ablaze as you lie in its ruins. You move into a seated position, shaking your head before you see his angry, wild eyed from barrel towards you in a hurried stagger, clutching the dagger still in his side. When he reaches down, murderous hands bent into vicious meaty claws aimed at your neck, you quickly kick up at the stiletto, causing it to pivot and rip further through his innards and visibly poke his belly from the inside. A look of monumental pain distorts his already ugly features and his cry comes out far quieter and substantially more pathetic.

He staggers back and you dive forward, towards his side, where his hands clutch the wound and press his belly, but leave the stilettos handle free; a fatal mistake. You grab it, wrenching the dagger out of him in a bloody pull, causing him to scream again as he spins towards you, trying to grab the knife, trapping you between him and the wall. Blood steadily coats the floor of the room as it spills out of him with each laboured breath. Seeing his swinging, madness fuelled punch flying towards your face, you duck down and it misses you by a few strands of hair. Knuckles crack and break on old wood, but the drunk and frantic mind that owns them doesn’t even notice. You duck under and around, trying to escape, but his other hand uppercuts wildly, catching you by the shoulder and sending you spinning onto the bed face down. It takes a heartbeat to roll and face him again, leaping of the bed and putting his now swaying form between you and the door. He looks near dying, pale faced and sweating. Sensing his weakness, you dive forward, ducking under his grasping arms to slide the dagger between his ribs, ramming it hard into his black heart.

He teeters for a moment, as though caught in a light breeze, before falling onto his back, crashing with a thunderous clatter to the floorboards below. It is then, like a curtain being dropped to reveal some horrible trick, that his fall reveals the open door, and the three red and white clothed pirates looking in.

The middle one appeared to be the pirate from the bar who wouldn’t stop talking.

He holds his iron plated club in one hand.

Sent to keep order at the inn.

You should have known it would be him.

A moment of shocked silence fills the room, you still panting hard, their eyes moving from place to place in near unison. You follow his as he looks at the body, the knife, the destroyed cabinet, all the blood, your eyes, your body. You follow his gaze and look down at your open jacket and exposed bosom; your right breast looks redder than the other and its nipple stands more erect, pointing the way to the door. Drops of blood dot you in seemingly random places; freckles in some places, spattered streaks in others. You look him in the eye and pull the jacket closed with a slow but dignified speed, fastening its single button. All three of the men watch you do so, spell finally breaking when your hands drop to your sides.

“You know...” His quip seems to die on his tongue, its stillborn corpse floating in the silent air. His mouth closes, opens again, the closes, before settling on a much more appropriate, “What the fuck?”

He punctuates his statement with a vague gesture towards the still warm corpse.

Your mind hums, not with chaos, but with the cold dispassion of a hive of insects. They work the situation like master craftsmen, providing lies, convenient truths, weighing up the strengths and weaknesses of the three, seeing avenues of escape and attack. The queen speaks.

“This was between me and him. Our crew business. Trust me, he had it coming.”

You judge the look that crosses his face, taking it for an understanding one. He finds the meaning of vague if true statement and nods his head.

“And the shank?” Again, he points to the room’s least active occupant, still holding the blade in the grip of his stilled heart.

“Like all the free women here aren’t armed.” You twist the word ‘free’ like a knife, driving your point home and leaving him looking uneasy; as assumed, you are not the only woman to walk an island of rapists without some concealed protection. He finally sighs and looks you in the eyes.

“Fine...Fine. Just go.”

He gives you an unreadably strange look. It seems to contain disappointment and resignation, but also ... respect?

You step over the body and yank your stiletto free. Lifeless eyes stare past you, at the ceiling. Strange that he came here for ‘fresh holes’; he now sports two of them. You wipe the dagger clean on the beds red speckled sheets before sliding in into your trousers and its thigh holster. Moving towards the door, the clean shaven, neat, and somewhat good looking man blocks your path with a raised hand.

“You know, if he had friends and you need a new crew, I’d put in a word with Captain Washkin for you. Captains don’t like it when their crew kill each other, and I doubt old Roland will be any different, but my captain would see you right.”

He looms over you, tall and well built, looking down at you with deep grey eye’s, filled with concern. You almost feel some affection for him, having to remind yourself that he is a pirate and a ****.

“I...I’ll think about it.” You say it after a moment, knowing full well that if things go to plan, his captain will not live out the night. You walk to the door, both of the men stepping aside to make way for you. The drunker one extends a hand.

“Ey. If all that’s got you feelin fresh, we could go for a roll if ya want.”

You don’t even break your stride or look at the fool, pushing past the hand and calling over your shoulder

“Talk to the last guy that wanted that.”

You feel his eyes on your form as you walk away, along the corridor and down both sets of stairs. Before the final stairway, you walk past the open door on the first floor again, voluntarily looking inside this time. You can’t tell how long the fight upstairs lasted -it could have been minutes or seconds- but here you see that different men had taken residence behind the boy and his mother. He was still crying unrestricted under the fresh violation while his mother had been shifted to her back, the man between her legs thrusting into a more traditional place this time. Her head lies on the floor, looking up at the kneeling boy, anguished expression having nothing to do with the activity at her hips.

The grey haired woman, sits on a chair nearby, a director watching the performance she demanded. The young man, who had covered the mouth of the red haired boy and held his head up so his mother could see, was with her, his black haired head between the thighs of her bare, spread legs. Short gasps and twitches of pleasure dart across her face as he works, her hands stroking his head like a favourite pet. Whatever he is doing to her womanhood, it seems to be only half her pleasure. The suffering of the other two provides the rest.

Knowing it’s unnecessary, you look into her socketed face, memorising her features until you could draw them. Your no artist, but you can sketch a profile well enough and you will uphold your promise. She briefly opens her mouth in silent appreciation as an involuntary jolt runs up her body. She strokes the young man’s hair,

“At a boy. Get me squirtin and you can ride the woman. Mmmmm. Or would you prefer to be were the boy whore is?” He shakes his head from side to side while still keeping his mouth busy. “No? -uhg- ooohh ffuck yes. Well don’t you ever forget it. Don’t you forget, where I could put you.” She purrs like a cat toying with a crippled mouse, looking down with eyes alight. A short drop and a tight pull should cure her of that expression.

You continue on, down the stairs to the main inn hall. Several faces turned towards you, taking in the spots of blood that litter your body, and a few in red and yellow colours look confused. Few of the inns patrons are sober enough to care however, still dunking and drinking from the main ale barrel, or by the crowd near the back door, or pumping the girl still slumped over the bar. Many just talks and laugh among themselves, turning guilty blind eyes to what others are doing.

Now free to do so, you walk out the front door without a second glance. All of the horrible things you have seen in that place are behind you now, and while you wish you could do something to save the few innocents suffering inside, you know that it is not meant to be. Not tonight. You can only succeed for them, ending the one that brought such evil together.

You walk down the main street, towards the outskirts of the village; though you can’t see it yet, the mansion can only be in this direction as there is only one way to walk, excluding the alleys unfit for a mansion owners patronage. The fight rolls over and over in your mind, repeating its most vivid moments. You try to learn from it, stretching your back as you walk and feeling it click many times as you work out the kinks hammered into it. You remember flying through the air, the **** of the splintering cupboard, (or was it a dresser?) as it broke apart under you. It’s a shabby lesson, but you’ll have to try and avoid flying through the air in future fights. Kicking the dagger was done on instinct at the time, but on reflection, it was a pretty good move. Showing your breasts was…well, you’ll call that one a draw; a little too distracting for both of you.

Fight analysed as much as you’re going to for now, you think of what the inarguably good looking pirate said. He offered to help you join his crew was...sweet, you suppose, but useless. His mention that a man named ‘Roland’ was your captain is far more helpful. Captain Roland was a hot headed man; one of Captain Washkin’s latest subordinate captains after he fled trouble to the south. Rumour has it that his short temper is matched with his short stature. It makes sense that Captain Washkin would want to meet him here, you suppose; he is the type of dog that will turn and bite its master if not kept on a short leash. Was there anything else about him? You picture your notes as you left them on your table, finding his quite fittingly short. He should be to the far north, right? Has you known he was in the area, you’d have enquired more about him. Why couldn’t it have been Captain Dofan? You have several pages on him.

You continue up the streets, keeping your eyes open for trouble. The tingling rush of the fight had begun to leave you the moment you stepped out of the building, like a rushing tide withdrawing from a beach, steadily leaving exhausted sands behind. You feel a little burnt out, your mind, like your body, returning to a little less than its regular pace (though you’d wager, still many paces ahead of most everyone else on this wretched island).

As you near the village exit, you see three men in red and white, standing together in the shadow of a dark building. Unfortunately, you see them at the exact moment they see you, and with no other choice, you press forward, walking past the building and its lollygaggers. You set a confidence you don’t currently feel into your step, hoping to avoid a three vs one fight or worse.

The biggest of the three leans forward and looks like he is about to say something to you. Maybe it’s the fresh blood on your chest, black in the moon light, or the hard look still very much on your face, but he thinks better of it, leaning back without a word. The three men mealy watch you as you pass by, muttering to themselves.

As you walk between some old stone gate pillars and just out of sight of the three men, you see the path take a turn as it winds through a narrow grip of woodland, getting narrower as it moves up a slight hill and eventually turning from dirt to a promising stately gravel. You also see the odds steeply slip even more out of favour when you finish the woodland bend, seeing the large stately building in the distance and a group of ten or more red and white clad pirates walking straight down towards you.

Again, running and hiding doesn’t seem very practical while they can clearly see you, so you continue walking up the path, this time less able to pull off a confident facade. As you near the group walking down, you step off the path and onto the grass that lines either side of it, hoping to let them pass you without incident and not be caught up in the boyish exuberance that come off them in waves of laughter. Drawing level, one of their number suddenly steps to the side, right into your path, slamming his shoulder into you as you pass each other and sending you spinning to the ground. You land hard on your bottom, the grass providing little comfort from the ground.

The group snigger to themselves, but they don’t stop their walk; they continue on in the direction of their fellow crew members, leaving you to quickly get up and continue in the opposite direction. Voices rise in the distance, around the tree lined corner, and start to fade as the two groups get further from you.

You look about for any more unclothed louts and re-join the path when you find yourself alone, the gravel crunching underfoot. The extravagance of such a mundane thing is made present when you think of how they must have got it onto the island; dozens of sacks, loaded onto ships, a backbreaking haul from the distant docs. The Mansion as well is made out of stone, though its internals could at least have been made out of native wood, if its owner could stoop to going native. The big building stands before you, the path leading to its side and splitting, curving around to the front and back of the building. The wider way is the one you judge front bound; the other narrows and goes through several thick grown bushes before disappearing around the corner. Light comes from one of the windows there, though you see no faces looking out. The rest of the windows are dark and sturdy, thick glass and frames barring entrance, at least without significant **** and noise. You follow the wider path around to the front. Better to remain looking legitimate, or as much as you can with the fair bit of blood spattered about you.

You round the corner of the house and approach along to the front door, finding it set in a small inlet on the front of the house. The divot holds a thick wooden door, sturdy enough to hold back an army, and leaning on the wall beside it, there is a guard sturdy enough to be that army. He stands taller than an average man, with arms thicker than your head and a face you could crack the building stone blocks with. He looks like a man carved from stone and brought to life by some storybook wizard; a golem guard, unmoving, with a cracked eye and unblinking stare.

Fixing an urgent look and authoritative pace, you walk forward, aiming to walk through the door with an air of urgency; what reason would they have to stop a fellow pirate from seeing her beloved captain? Hopefully they have no passwords or secret handshakes. Hopefully, strange and random crewmen are allowed in at all. A thick spade like hand blocks you.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on. What’s with all the blood there missy?” His voice rumbles like a rockslide.

You look down and the wet specks on your jacket and torso. The once black dots had turned scarlet in the pool of lantern light and the glow emanating from the cracks of the door and the nearby windows. It looks like you are to face another fight, only, as this opponent could snap you in half by falling on you, better to keep this a thing of words and guile.

“Got jumped, you should see the other guy.” You smile, trying to look like some mischievous scoundrel, while shrugging as though it were nothing.

He looks at you with narrowed eyes, appraising you, and you reappraise him, looking further than his most striking features. There’s intelligence behind his eyes. You don’t let your worry show but you begin to think he was put on guard for a reason beyond brutishness.

“Lot of blood, and no scraped knuckles. You carrying?”

He’s definitely sharper than most. You look at his vast size, a wall of muscle thicker than the walls of this mansion, leaning casual yet ready. His face, all angles and stubble, is unreadable, but a heavy axe rests at his hip, which a thick and calloused hand briefly touches, but doesn’t rest upon. Cautious, curious, but not fatally so; if he were smarter about it, he wouldn’t source his suspicions until after teasing out more lies. At least, that’s how you would do it.

“It was your boy at the inn.” Acting isn’t your best skill, but you try to keep natural, pulling a story out of thin air. “Some guy gets, er, hard and tries to jump me. Your friend with the club had to open his head. Got it all over me.”

Apart from the slight stutter, that was a brilliant peace of improvisation. You mentally pat yourself on the back.

“So why not clean yourself off, ey? An why you even tryin to get in?”

The second question was more expected than the first, you give your best response back instantly, finding the lies rolling with ease. First off, why you’re here.

“It was one of ours that got it.” Better your crew than his, and technically true enough. “He got a high rank, and that means duty’s that aren’t goin to get done now.” You briefly try for a bit of a similar accent, but drop it as soon as you hear it. After a brief cough, you continue. “I was sent to tell Captain Roland right away...Besides, what would I clean myself off with at the inn? Ale?”

The last part comes as inspiration; what would you clean yourself off with? Also, you’re playing the pirate; aren’t they all filthy blood soaked scum most of the time?

You sense his suspicions beginning to die down, but losing an argument had a bitter sting and you sense he’s not willing to let you go just yet.

“Yeah? Well no one inside wants to see you like that, go clean up.”

You know you’ve convinced him about the blood, he’s just exercising power now. You put on a frustrated pout.

“I’d have to go all the way down to the beach just to clean up. Captain needs to know now.”

“So?” He shrugs his big shoulders and you suppress your mirth, the action looking ‘so’ childish on him.

“So I’ll clean up inside.”

His eye’s narrow one final time with a waspish quality.

“Then go round back. Tell Zap you can use the pump, and be bloody quick about it.”

He huffs, waving you away. Of all the obstacles you expected to encounter, having hygiene too poor for pirates was not one of them. You throw him a semi-sarcastic smile and head off down the path.

Following the other split through the bushes, you press on. The lit window you saw lies behind the overgrown bushes and hardly shines with radiance anyway. As you follow about the houses corner and continue up to the back door, you see another guard, more slender, but no less dangerous. If the other man is some great warhammer, this man has the look of a barbed cudgel, or the wooden bat he has leaning against the wall.

“What you want then?”

He looks at you with similarly cross arms, which fall loose as he takes in the blood. You hold up your hands, one of which makes the sight worse.

“Easy. The guy at the front says I need to use the pump to clean off before I can get in.”

He snorts air out of his nose, clearly amused as he looks you up and down.

“Well you ain’t commin in ere.” His eyes look you over, and you find yourself thankful for the dangerous air the blood gives you, and the prospect of bathing. You let him look, waiting him out with silent expectation. He shrugs.

“Ah-ight, stay ere.”

He picks up his bat and steps through the nearby door, leaving you standing in a field. Time is wasting, but you feel patience would be more useful than barging in and causing an alarm. Even if you could get past him (which from the rusty squeak and splashing water from not far inside, you doubt), he could still make a fuss if he returned to find you gone, and you’ve already left two corpses in your wake; best not to push your luck.

He returns and dumps a wooden bucket on the grass, sloshing with water and hosting a washed up rag clinging to its rim.

“Clean up then.”

He returns to lean against the wall, watching you as a welcome distraction from his vigil. You regret not killing him. Picking up the bucket by its rope handle, you head toward the bushes.

“Ah ah ah, my bucket my rules. It stays ere.”

You put it down. Fine.

Picking up the rag, you dunk it and wring it out, give him a hard look, and when you’re sure he’s not going to do anything, you rub it all over your face. The water is cool, but you keep yourself from enjoying it just to spite him. You take the rag and, through a series of dunks, rubs, and wipes, you clean yourself in the most quick and unappealing way possible, moving it practically over your clothes and briskly under them, wiping down your spattered legs and in your ears and stopping short of blowing your nose with the thing, before tossing it down into the bucket with a splash. It’s far from a thorough job, but it gets the blood off you.

He still smiles, but it’s clear he wanted more and you feel quite a happy buzz to have denied him whatever it was. You shoot him a thin smile before walking away.

Returning to the front door guard and mourning the lost time spent on something so ridiculously unproductive, you stop before him and do a sarcastic twirl. Inspection quickly passed, he waves you through.

Finally, you open the large old door and enter the mansion proper.