Or maybe not yet

Your mind is at least somewhat made up for you by the sound of somebody shifting in the jungle outside. You realize that there's really no knowing where any of you are... or what might be around you. It's tropical, palm fronds overhead with colorful birds nesting in them, but that narrows it down only slightly. You could ask Marianne where the ship had been when it went down, that could certainly help to quantify how afraid you should be by the fact you just saw an inordinately large shadow moving in the trees.

You notice Carla slide out of the shelter beside you, when you look at her, she nods and gestures to where the shadow had been, then for you to be quiet. You both sit and quietly observe the shadow move, looking almost like it's circling to measure up the meager campsite. Carla keeps a sharp rock close at hand, not much but better than nothing. When it finally slinks away into the woods, Carla sighs.

"Every morning." She mutters, standing up slowly.

"I thought you didn't speak English." You observe.

She looks at you and shrugs. You're not sure if you just caught a lie she's been telling or if it's one of the few phrases she does know. Either way, she quickly slinks out of the camp and doesn't give you a chance to find out.

It still seems obnoxiously early enough that most of the rest aren't awake, opportunities to be truly alone may be truly rare as time goes on, but as of right now it's more of an annoyance. Your dress is still overly long and currently gross and starchy with seawater. While you aren't really sure about going full Tarzan just yet, it might do you well to modify your outfit for ease and take a bath. You remember a river on the way from the shore to the camp, a well-enough beaten path that you probably won't get lost. You decide to go alone, take what may be your only opportunity to do so.

A lot of the aches and pains of the previous day remain in lesser forms. There's still an aching throb to your head, but you no longer feel like you want to throw up and fall asleep at the same time. Your legs have a bit more action to them, and the stiffness of your arms has turned to a dull ache. Based on your bare memories and the accounts of the girls, you were at a party, perhaps as the guest of honor. There was a shipwreck and between being dashed on the shore and swimming for your life, you probably pushed every muscle in your body to a logical of strain. You're alive, you're here, but it seems to not have done you much personal good. Considering how many times your bare feet find nasty rocks and roots on the short walk, at least one part of your body wishes you had maintained the good sense to just drown and get it over with. It's hard to imagine this not being the low point in any person's life, the idea that any other point could be lower, low enough to make a deal with the voice, boggles your mind. Though if that were the case, was it the fighting for her life to keep her head above the water, or something else that made the old host of this body look for a way out?

When you arrive at the river, you find it shockingly cool considering how much even the early morning has begun to you with windless heat. The languid humidity makes the water a welcome distraction as you dip your toes in. You begin to peel out of your dress, even if somebody were to see you now, it wouldn't matter much in the long run. You groan in disgust as, even with the dress sliding off, you come to understand just how many layers of salt-soaked antique garb you were wrapped in. No surprise the heat was especially unbearable. As well as being layered ad nauseam, the layers also don't really interconnect in a sensible way. Beneath the full-body dress, there's a body-length laced-up gown, below that a torso-covering stomacher pinned to an underlayer, then a full petticoat, then below the petticoat an absolutely stay holding your shoulders stiff with some sort of bone, then a full gown. You probably had stockings and a cap, as well as any number of other loose items at one point. Between untying, unlacing, unwinding, unstuffing, and unfucking yourself, it takes nearly five full minutes to dress down to the point where you can see your own skin. The pile of clothing you leave on the shore is massive, and you don't intend to put most of it back on.

Your new body is moderately plump, compared to every other girl on board the ship, you were probably well-fed for whatever time period this is. Judging by the lack of body hair maintenance as well, your manner of dress was probably less antiquated than you would like. However, you are currently probably several miles and decades from personal razors. Neither this nor your form are of huge concern to you, especially not with the beast sitting expectantly between your legs. Regardless of time period or standard of beauty, this thing would be both most unbecoming of a woman to possess and completely enrapturing for any challenge-minded person to look upon. It is largely unchanged from how you would expect it to look, aside from the significant cushion of hair around it. When you peel the skin back from the head, the reddish skin still waits underneath. Doing this makes your body churn in expectation. The standards of the time also likely mean this body is a stranger to release, and getting yourself worked up is probably a short road to losing control. Like every new body, there are a set of successes and failings inherent in the form.

You purge these thoughts and the rising urges by plunging yourself into the cold waters of the river.

The shocking embrace of the water launches you to attention, as well as purging any remaining sleep from your body. You taste the water tentatively, noting that this is probably where the other girls have gotten their freshwater from. Following the river would likely be a very good idea, at some point. For now, you stay where you can see your clothes on the shore and run your hands over some of the stickier and stiffer parts of your body. When you feel as clean as you can get without soap, you walk back to the shore. You could go down to the beach and dry in the sun, it might even get some color into your milky skin, but you don't want to walk around naked just yet. You also feel no great desire to get sand in your ass. You linger on the shore, looking at the pile of mismatched clothes and trying to spatially work out how to make the best of your situation.

You take a rock and shatter the hard bone of the stay, breaking it into small enough pieces that you can wear the thing as a glorified crop top. You take the least offensive petticoat and slide it on, tying the shoulder straps around your waist like a belt. When you're done, it could almost be mistaken for a sleeveless shirt and skirt from an era of more reasonable dress. Finally, you tear the sleeves off of the white gown and wrap them around your feet. It's not much, not enough to protect you from the sharper rocks, but it's the little mercies you can bestow on your feet that will add up in time. The remaining pile of fabrics is excessive but worth saving. You bundle them up under your arms and head back to camp.

When you return, the hive of girls has started to stir and disperse out among the camp. You're faced with the question of who to help... again.