…poison both mugs.

You kick off from the wardrobe towards the table, fishing out the small vial of poison as you go. The process is made fiddly by haste and a hand busy holding your blade, but you get the stopper out and begin to pour its contents. You hear a door open, in the other room leading to this one, with the accompanying sound of approaching footsteps and voices. They’re very close.

You hastily tip out the vial, giving the mugs half and half and a few lost drops between, before running back to the wardrobe and closing the door as quick as you can without slamming them. No sooner do they meet and seal you in darkness than the door to the room opens and two people step through.

“-fire in the woods now as well, and after this summer it’s basically a tinder pile.” The woman’s voice, clearly captain Washkin’s, sounds exasperated. “We’ll have to cut our meeting short.”

Having just closed the doors, the light that shines through their broken keyhole does so directly onto your face; your chin specifically. With just a little adjustment, you stoop down further in your gargoyle hunch to put your eye to it; a process that shows you a narrow view of the room, revealing only the distant window, the table, and the two people before it.

Captain Washkin puts down her tankard with the clunking sound of pewter on wood.

“This place should be safe though, right?” The gruff voice of the man beside her sounds more suspicious than concerned.

While she wears a long read coat and white top, indicating her crew colours, he’s in a sleeveless coat of garish yellow and red stripes. Captain Roland perhaps? He pushes it aside to lazily show the twin blades at his waist; a natural movement, yet threatening enough. Captain Washkin chooses not to notice.

“Yes. At least I hope so. Ahem. But the path won’t be. I don’t,” she swallows, her hand massaging her throat, “I don’t like the idea of being tra-trapped annd…” She wavers on her feet, swaying back and forth. Coughs begin to rock her form, quietly at first, but soon loud and quickly wetting. Red spittle comes to her lips and wide eyed realisation to her face. She looks at Roland, horrified, and tries to take some steps towards the other door in the room, collapsing with the clatter of her undrawn sword before she makes any of the distance.

Roland takes out his knives, head darting about as he tries to look everywhere at once. If he starts to search now… the way he holds his blades is a far surer than you and yours. If he opens the wardrobe doors, surprise will be your only advantage. His eyes settle on the mug, then back to the dying form of the woman on the floor.

“Heh. Ha ha ahhh. Oh really? Really.” He looks at her with an almost maniacal gleam in his eyes, leaning down to look at her as she writhes. “You damn stupid whore. You poisoned the wrong fucking mug!”

You pause, and even when in her **** throws, the captain seems to still, both of you looking at him with the same incredulous expression.

Blessed be; the man’s an idiot.

Her last sight one of a mocking fool standing over her, the captain stills for good and departs from the world, her purple bloated face twisted with pain, horror, and… not a little disappointment. She looks as though her final thoughts, those unrelated to her fellow captains stupidity, could be summed up with two simple words; ‘like this?’ Perhaps the whore who rose to terrorise at least two countries and all the seas between them, expected something a little grander? A little more dramatic? The only one who’d know doesn’t say, and never will.

Finishing with his mockery, which mainly consisted of pantomiming her spasms, Captain Roland cautiously leans forward, and when he’s sure she isn’t about to attack him, kneels to her side to look over her body. His movements could be mistaken for reverent, with the mockery from before so cut off and kneeling before her, but he proves simply to be practical, turning her and laying her flat in a move anyone frighteningly familiar with corpses would make. He pushes her arms to the side and grabs her shirt, and you jump as he suddenly rips it open, the sound thankfully masking your impulsive movements. Her chest is bared, with her breasts on display, oddly normal in colour considering her face. Disgust wells up in you as he grabs one of the flattened mounds, squeezing it harder than any waking woman would tolerate.

“This is the only part of you the worlds gonna miss.”

She rocks slightly as he shakes her, impassive to his disrespect. He lets go and tugs the fine gold chain about her neck, turning it until he can access its clasp. With a few muttered curses, it comes loose, and when he stands, the Amulet of Abyet dangles from his fingers.

In a way, that’s what you’re here for. The blue tear stone set in a fine frame of woven gold and silver, glitters in the light of the rooms candles, enthralling both you and him. It’s worth a fortune on its own, but having spent the better part of Captain Wendigo’s reign around her neck, it’s also proof of her ****, and as such it’s worth counts the full and staggering 50,000 gold bounty, along with an island of your own.

Technically, you’re not here for that, you were here for the justice; to see the woman now dead on the floor…well, dead on the floor. And said justice was not just a technicality; this is more than a court’s ruling; it’s a win for all those who suffered under her raids and organised tyranny. Your mission is complete. You allow yourself a brief flare of pride at your accomplishment, with a smile rising on your face.

A flick of the wrist sends the jewel flying into his hand, and thick fingers snap shut like a trap, locking the prize from its rightful owner. The flare dies, and takes the smile with it; this was a victory for the world, and snatched from the jaws of defeat no less, but if you don’t get that amulet back it may not be such a victory for yourself. Thoughts of righteous justice and a better world begin to feel shadowed by more mundane things, like when your rent is due or the costs incurred by the poison and the knife and the boatman, and they altogether sour your mood considerably.

Just as you think he’s stands too far and too ready for an ambush, the issue becomes mute. He looks about briefly, as though realising he’s now just standing in an empty room with a corpse, before turning to the door, opening it, and nonchalantly walking out the room.

What now? With the captain dead, your work is done. You can leave right now knowing that the world is better for you being here. Escaping the island with quiet certainty through the still unburnt woods, and swimming to your waiting guide.

Or…

Roland is only a few seconds gone; you could go after him.

The image of him with his ready knives is not one that easily fades, but perhaps if you can get the drop on him, the amulet can be yours, and more importantly, another pirate will depart this world for good. Still, how would you even do it? The risk is high, and taking it is far too stupid to convince yourself of any righteous motivations. Yet still, little whispers like ‘think of what you could do with that money’ bubble and churn in the back of your mind. The image of you with Captain Roland’s daggers in your guts helps quash them though, like wet sand poured on to a fire.

Perhaps there is a middle ground? Even in this wardrobe, there are many fine thing. You rub against soft silks and squat in a froth of satin. There must be many other plunders within the room; indeed, likely the best booty of the archipelago, gathered from years of raiding up and down its coasts. It won’t be 50,000 gold and an islands worth, and if it was then you doubt you could escape with it on your back, but it would be…enough.

The cost of course would be time. Time spent searching and hoping and standing over the body of a fresh dead woman, on a burning island inhabited by her loyal (albeit distracted) crew. As she said, the woods are ‘basically a tinder pile’ and lie across the distance you need to travel to safety: the back of the island and the short swim to your guide. From the sound of it, not even the main path out of here may be traversable for long.

Surely you have time though, right?

With the moment to choose fast approaching, you take a deep breath and smell the faint wisps of smoke, either carried on the air or clinging to your person.