Go to the inn using your current disguise.

A lone woman going into a dark derelict house with two drunks is a bad idea, for a variety of reasons. You decide to simply stick with your original plan and go to the inn as you are. Besides; to your understanding, men in bars like to talk to women, and talking is what you are here to do. Taking a deep breath, you walk down the street, towards the light of the inn door.

The usual inn sounds filter as muffled noises through the street; the cheer of the ****, the hum of conversation, and the laughter of the easily amused. Music sounds as well, in in pipe and fiddle, song, and the impromptu clash of hands and mugs on tables. It sounds like a headache on the horizon, but you smile anyway as you approach, remembering your previous experience of such places. Rowdy drink isn’t your thing, but inns are typically the rumour mill of any town; they can grind more grains of truth in a day than all the grains used in the ale they serve doing it.

As you step past the threshold and into the bathing light of the central chamber, it takes every drop of your mental prowess to keep that smile on your face. You manage half of it. Objectively, you’d be pleased with the attempt, but what you see forces such self-gratifying thoughts from your mind.

The inn is dominated by a large central common room, and there are many people dispersed throughout it. Many of them seem to be taking part in several ‘shows’ around the room, while many more seem content to sit and watch, drinking and giving applause or suggestion. Most are hidden in the throng, with the nearest being a small crowd gathered closer to the entrance, their focus lost in the groups density. Instead, your eyes are involuntarily drawn to the clearest group in the centre of the room. A large number of people, pirates in every combination of red, white, and yellow, are sitting around a table, shouting and cheering while an older woman with fading red hair squats down on something unseen. She’s completely naked, or her top half is. You see from her elevated position on the table that her large breasts jolt up and down as she ‘rides’ whatever she is squatting on. It’s clear on her face that she is clearly not enjoying what she is doing. If anything, she looks disgusted by it.

The room has a fever to it, yet over the din you hear a grunt and a curse from somewhere within the nearby crowd. Another voice responds,

“All right, all right. My turn. I got an idea that I want to try out.”

The crowd briefly parts as they all take a step back. You wish they hadn’t. In the centre, a large bald man is on his knees with his manhood clearly embedded in the lower lips of a face down woman. He remains still, apparently finished in his task, and after a moment, he pulls himself out of her and walks away as though suddenly bored, tucking his member into his long trousers. The woman, like the woman on the table, also has red hair, but hers is brighter and more vibrant, presumably due to her being younger. Another man, with scars all over his head and body, walks up to the unmoving woman, grabbing a fist full of the spilled red hair and pulling her harshly up into an upright kneeling position. She looks a tragic sight. Bruises are scattered all over her body, and her blank face stares forward, dull eyes still launching tears down her cheeks.

He leans down next to her head, putting his mouth to her ear yet not lowering his voice.

“Yer gonna enjoy this.”

He grabbing her arms and drags her off, to a gaping hole in the wall to the left. You cannot help but see her red pubic hairs are matted with a large amount of semen.

You realise, when you taste the thinnest sliver of blood, that you are biting your tongue hard to keep your face neutral. Looking around the room, its occupants are far too distracted to really see you. There’s a bar along the far right wall that has several people sat or standing next to it, though three empty seats as well, which is odd for such a crowded and well fermented room. You see why when you spot a barrel near the centre of the room, watching as someone dunks a tankard into it and pulls it out filled with a flat looking ale. Evidently, the drinks are as free to take as the women tonight. That watering hole is a little too fluid and pushy for you though, surrounded by a constant lumbering whirlpool of veteran alcoholics; the people at the bar, meanwhile, have their back to the room’s antics, and you feel it’s best to follow suit.

As if piloted by a poor puppeteer, you stiffly make your way to the bar, aiming for one of the vacant seats. Along the way you get a clearer picture of what the older woman is riding when you see a young man, also with ginger hair, laying down beneath her. His arms are being held down by the people on either side of him and you think you see a knife resting on one of his wrists. He looks a mixture of terrified and mortified as the middle aged woman bounces up and down on him, sliding his hard member in and out of her hairy sex. Unthinking, you sit at an empty chair in the bar, turning your back to the scene. You close your eyes, take a breath, and try to focus.

The crowded inn gives off a deafening hum, indistinct conversations mixing with music, to the betterment of neither, yet even with all the loud noises you can still hear a wet rhythmic slapping. It bores into your mind and makes it very hard to concentrate; you regret ever entering this place. **** is a staple of any pirate’s diet, but so are whores and you thought a haven like this would be full of them. You breathe deep and let out a sigh. Seeing the empty chair to your left, you opt to turn right to speak with the man sitting next to you. Your words die in your throat, leaving him to speak first.

“What’s the matter lass? Yer lookin a bit peaky.” He says it with a smile.

However you look, you look worse when you fully see and understand what’s behind him. One of the men, who you thought was simply standing at the bar, is in fact vigorously pounding the upturned rear of a third red headed woman, who’s slumped face down over the counter. His hard penetrations move her body up and down with each thrust, yet no sound escapes the lips of her mouth. Her lower lips, you realise, is the source of the hot, sloppy sounds that you couldn’t escape from. Unlike the other two, she is wearing a simple dress which betrays its function by having the skirt thrown up over her back, leaving her legs and posterior exposed. Her head is turned away from you, but you can see the expression on her face in your mind; the look of blank miserable acceptance on the face of the woman near the entrance, now dragged off to gods know where, is too fresh not to. The man grunts and sighs with excursion as he continues his vile exploitation.

You bring yourself back to the budding conversation.

“Err..Pardon? I mean, yes. I..uh..I’m not feeling very well,” you manage fairly weakly. You set your mind to the task at hand and try to think of a way to get this conversation flowing in the right direction: your targets whereabouts. This, you remind yourself, is your arena; the conversation, teasing information out of the unknowing, outmanoeuvring the criminal mind. You’ve just never done it with a woman being violated two short steps away from you.

“That’s a shame. You know, we could go upstairs and I’ll make you feel better.”

You look at him for a moment, a man with a regular build, a neat haircut and a face that wouldn’t look out of place in any city you’ve been in. He’s wearing white and red clothing and is only the second person you’ve seen who is openly armed, this time with a mean looking club strapped to his belt.

He could almost be considered hands-

“OH FUCK!”

The man behind him exclaims loudly, his gyrations reaching a frenzied speed. You try to remember what the man your speaking to last said.

“How woul-“ You stop, realising how he probably thinks he could ‘make you feel better’. Despite the mood in the room, it’s the last thing on your mind right now. “-Oh, er, no thank you. You don’t seem like the rest of this lot.” Fat chance, though he seems sober at least. You leave the question open and in the air, hoping that his turned down advance will not bitter him to talking with you.

“Heh, yeh I guess you can say that. I don’t drink booze see, so Maxwell sent me down here to keep order.”

You tilt your head in what you hope is a sign of forgetfulness,

“Maxwell...He’s..uh..”

“Captain Wendigo’s right hand man” he responds easily, “You’d recognise him, always standing behind her when she gives speeches. Has that big white beard.”

You remember the man from the path into the village and choose to buy some credibility in this conversation;

“Oh yeah! The guy with the fancy sabre! Isn’t he at the docks?”

“That’s right” he says, smiling widely. “So you like weapons? Is it any or just sabres?”

You decide to take a gamble and draw on the information you gained before coming to this island. “Actually, I really like Captain Wendigo’s sword, it’s so elegant. All thin and straight.”

He laughs in a deep rich timber at this.

“True, true, it’s a sight all right. It’s a devil if you ever see it in action. Captain knows er stuff.”

You sense another man fill the left seat behind you and hear a tankard drop on the counter. Even more distractingly, the man on a mission to irreparably damage the poor girl on the table top finished his quest. Still buried within her, he practically lies on her back as several involuntary jolts and moans pass through him. He continues to lie on top of her contentedly for a while after.

Fighting the distraction and failing miserably, your words jump to the end of the conversation before you can stop them.

“So where is Captain Wendigo?”

You try to keep a neutral expression on your face, despite the importance of the question, mentally kicking yourself for risking everything so bluntly.

“Oh she’s still in the mansion. You know, if-“

”Hey Jon! Saved me a seat?”

Another man walks up to the counter and aimed his question at the man still hilted in the unfortunate woman. Grabbing the scruff of his neck, he pulls ‘Jon’ off the woman, your conversation partner standing and turning to face him. They seem to know each other and begin talking, all while ‘Jon’ slowly moves away with a stupid contented grin on his face.

A sign of movement from the girls rear distracts you, but it’s only the slow decent of semen running down the inside of her thighs. You watch its progress down, morbidly hypnotised, until it reaches its comrades on the floor between her feet. The man mentioned a mansion, and pointed in a direction towards the back of the room as he did it. This island cannot exactly be bursting with mansions so finding it (and by extension, your quarry) shouldn’t be too difficult. Looking at the girl, she’s as still as the dead, and you start to think she may not be alive when you hear a voice behind you.

“Hey bitch! Got somthin to say to ya.”

You turn, wishing you hadn’t, considering the address. A short man, just a bit taller than you, with a mutton chop beard connected by a thick black moustache, joined with a thinning head of hair, looks at you with narrowed eyes. He’s wearing the same yellow and red colours as you, pulled tight over thick muscle, and like you, his feet don’t quite reach the floor as he sits on the bars stools. He leans in close to your face and you try to stay still and calm; backing down doesn’t seem like a thing a pirate woman would do lightly. He’s close enough to smell the significant amount of **** on his breath, and it wafts more invasively over you as he whispers words that freeze your mind like a midwinter lake.

“You ain’t one of ours. I pulled it to all ours and you ain’t one of em.”

You think quickly and return the necessarily loud whisper, as though joking.

“I’m new.”

He smiles, brutally.

“See that’s wot I thunk but I asked about, an old Unacka, see, ee’s in charge o new hands. An ee aint ever erd o no one like yuss being aboard.” He stares at you with a slight look of triumph on his face.

You gulp and try to think of something else to say, but before you do, he puts his big hand on your thigh and continues his whisper.

“I out you, an your gonna get fucked more an all these ginger cunts put together. Lucky for you I want someone fresh. You take them lil girl tits an go up to room 3E. You get fucked by me, or you get fucked by me an everyone else as well.” With that, he runs his hand up you thigh but takes it away just before reaching you crotch. “You got a minute.” He wanders back out into the room and disappears into the crowd. You wipe cold sweat off your forehead, feeling like you’re about to throw up.

The icy fog that covered your brain begins to dissipate and the room slowly returns to your senses in all its awful glory. You notice that a person seems to be coming up from some hitherto unseen side room behind the bar, carrying a big keg of ale; you notice the funnel above, the wide room hollow all the way up to the distant roof, with walkways on each floor, holding or leading to all manner of rooms; you notice a large crowd at the back of the room hid a small exit to street behind the inn; turning back to the bar, you notice the new comer has now taken residence behind your female neighbour and is sloppily continuing the work that ‘Jon’ left off. You notice that the casual **** marks the end of the the conversation he was having with the man next to you.

Seeing that your ‘fellow’ crewmember has left, he tries to talk to you again.

“Hey, so where were we? Oh yeah! I was going to say ‘If you like weapons then how about we go upstairs and I show you mine’. Shame he ruined it eh?” He tilts his head at the person behind him who was still ploughing a field long since seeded.

The man in question looks at you directly, over his friends shoulder, using the sight of your breasts and face to add fuel to his fucking. It sends more cold shivers through you.

You take a deep breath and answer his question without thinking, responding with a question of your own that you neither need nor particularly want to hear the answer to.

“Why would you want to take me upstairs when you’ve been sitting right next to her this whole time?” He and his friend share a look that you cannot read before he turns back to you and answers.

“Because you’re a real woman.”

The answer confuses you, before you work it out. From what you have been **** to see, all three of the women visible are wider hipped, bigger breasted, and generally fuller figured than you, but it’s not that they are more woman than you are; he just sees them as less human.

“You got class and smarts; I can see it on your face. We’d be perfect together.” He laughs. “Besides, who said I haven’t tapped that? I was one of the first!”

You can’t believe you ever thought he was handsome.

He continues talking. You stop listening. Instead, the machinations of your own thoughts tumble about in your head, far more pressing and important. You need a solution to your problem. It’s time to get one.

The main problem is how to get out of the inn with the mutton chop man either not noticing or not caring. Once you’re gone, the ravings and accusations of a lone drunk would hold little weight without you to stand as evidence, so you’re not terribly concerned about being hunted down by a mob. You’re concerned, just not terribly; you save that for the notion of not escaping.

You scan the room and the various balconies above you but can’t see him anywhere. You doubt he would simply trust you to go upstairs without keeping an eye on you. Despite the **** on his breath, he has clearly acted with some intelligence.

You could simply walk out the back door. The crowd around it is still reasonably thick with people, so slipping though would certainly be possible. With the inn’s front entrance now no longer as populated compared to when you first arrived, walking across the room and leaving though it would be very obvious to anyone looking. Standing separate from the people in the room would allow a yelled accusation and a pointed finger to very quickly single you out and stop you, but the back way is almost certainly the way he’ll expect you to go.

The alternative is a very unpleasant thought; go up to the room and try to ambush him. You’re definitely not spreading your legs tonight, for him or anyone else. This runs several obvious risks, killing him would have to be silent and absolute as yelling and screaming tends to lure people into seeing what’s going on. One thing that it does do, however, is put the control of the situation back in your hands. The room of scum sucking rapists that you are currently in is both his threat and his best weapon, while getting him alone would deny him there immediate use. One on one isn’t bad odds compared to the alternative.

Your attention is drawn to the centre table by the cheering of the crowd and see that the young man the older woman was riding had gone flaccid. The woman, clearly ****, had now taken the young man’s limp rod into her mouth at the behest of those around the table, trying to breath new life into it. After a moment, the young man (who you begin to realise is related to the woman in more than just hair colour) begins to arch his back, crying and yelling out. After a moment, the older woman kneels upright, opens her mouth and reveals the pale contents to the crowd. A grand cheer goes up and you see for the briefest moment, a twinkle of something in her eye. Satisfaction perhaps? Her actions, while repulsive, probably saved her son in some fashion. Whatever it was disappears when some large hairy men come and drag the boy off the table, taking him upstairs. Shockingly enough, some of the women in the crowd follow them, and before long, the older woman is dragged up as well.

Seeing this travesty added to all the others, another option blooms in your mind. Wild. Unconstructive. As the new ale barrel is put down and broken open, you mentally finger the vial of poison you brought with you. You reason through gritted teeth that you can just walk out of here if everyone is dead.

You snort grimly at the notion, then reconsider. Chaos does have its uses you suppose.

After a moment thumbing your thigh and ignoring the mans continued words,