…stay and listen.

You decide to wait in the dark, positioning yourself behind the crates for added concealment. The slaps of the older man echo through the room like the applause after a fine show. Not looking, you can almost convince yourself; a standing ovation that claps faster and more frenzied as it goes. His grunts ruin the effect, bouncing around the room with the slap of hips on hips, and the squealing of the other man doesn’t help either.

The mumble of voices rise, just on the wrong side of indecipherable, too indistinct without seeing the lips that spoke them. You silently curse and look around your boxes.

“You like that boy? Eh? Who bends like a bitch now?” the older man was saying, his pace frantic. He looks at the large man, who was sipping a mug some something while standing completely naked facing your direction, his bulky frame turned shadowy silhouette. “This lad thought I did all the bendin”, he sounds strained, like his old heart is about to beat its last. The larger man turns to him, out of politeness or concern you can’t tell. “Uh, now ee knows... I do the givin boy! Ahhhh! An you do...Ahh... do the takin...Ahhhhhhh!” He digs deep with his hips and jerks as he bucks, sucking air between his teeth. Both he and the man he is in are bright red in the face, though the younger man in the stocks has a far more sickly cast, as though he’s about to pass out.

This isn’t the kind of knowledge you stayed to overhear.

The large man takes a nearby chair, turning his back as he sits next to the third man who you still haven’t had a good look at. The big man reaches down and his hand returns with a bottle, and after he drinks he offers it to his fellow observer as they wait for the old man to catch his breath and join them. He refuses but offers some unheard mumble that leaves the big man chuckling.

The old man soon extracts himself from his victim and walks over to join them, sitting on the other side of the large man and taking the bottle when offered. The man and woman in the stocks are quiet now, gathering their strength for the dire times ahead. Without the sounds they made (both vocally and physically), the men are free to talk at a level volume that seems all the quieter for their previous shouts and grunts. The hum of conversation fills the room but they’re too far away to hear it. Maybe if you could see their faces, watch their lips; otherwise, you need to get closer if you want to hear anything thanks to the room’s slight echo.

With their backs to you, it’s possible. You could sneak across the darker parts of the room, near the boxes. The door and its stairs up to the floor above linger in the corner of your eye. Maybe you should have gone. You still-

*Hiss*

You freeze at the sound behind you.

“You there.” It’s far behind you, and barely a whisper. You slowly look back into the darkness, but a thin line of distant window and the sliver of moonlight it paints on the floor are all you can see in the otherwise impenetrable dark.

*Hiss* “Hey, come here.” The voice is clearly fighting the age old war: trying to whisper both as loudly and as quietly as possible. It comes out as a rasp that barely reaches you. A clinging whisper, like some drifting spiders web, slinking in the dark of an underground cellar, and coming from a place where there was definitely no whisperer before.

A girlish part of you wants to run away, up the stairs and far from the creepy voice that shivers your fine hairs to attention, and a sizable part of your adult self heartily agrees. You take a moment to steady yourself, and remind yourself that the only monsters you’ve seen down here are sitting in chairs at the far end of the adjoining room.

“Please” He sounds more pitiful now that you listen, as though that last remark was to the gods, not you. The voice of a broken old man. It could turn loud if left alone.

You slowly move down into the darkness. It’s far harder than moving the other way, towards the light of the room. You have to move on your hands and knees, careful not to bump into a shelf and set its contents rattling. You move what you think is about half the length towards the distant window before the voice comes again.

“Over here...please.” You jump, the whisper the loudest yet, mainly because it comes from right next to you. It’s still slightly muffled, as though it’s coming from behind something, and an inspection of the source shows a very thin, faint orange light, its source hidden behind the barest crack. Your hands feel. Wooden boxes perhaps? There is a definite break in the bottle holding shelves; smooth wood gives way to rough as your probing fingers jump from shelf to some kind of crate fitted into the wide gap. The light seems obvious now that you’re looking at it. Its faintness is magnified in the dark. You ready a question, angling yourself to the low angle that the voice came from and whispering back.

“Who are you?”

“Gah! Ah, um, er Vogun, uh, miss?” A small part of you is glad you made him jump, finally putting more fear into him he did you. He’s no spectre at least. “Uh, sorry to jump miss. Thought I half imagined you goin by. Been whisperin ages.” Makes sense, you wouldn’t have been able to hear with the party in full swing over there. You try for something more helpful than a name.

“What are you-“

“We’re slaves miss, slaves!” His voice is the horse breathiness that passes for shouting when whispering. It isn’t as old as you first thought though, simply worn. “Am just a farmer miss; honest man! Them bastards-”

“The fuck you talkin to?” The new voice is deeper; stronger, but still a whisper. It comes from next to the other man, which your more and more convinced is behind some large boxes that are tightly blocking a doorway into some dimly lit room.

“Shhhh! Shhhh! Shhhhhut-the-fuck-up! It’s a beautiful celestial, sent by the gods to save us. Right miss?” He sounds half mad and giddy with eagerness.

“Uh...no. Well, I mean...” You don’t know what to say.

“Noooo pleeeease! You got to save us!” His voice slightly breaks, briefly crossing the line of whispering and speaking before it’s quickly muffled by something. The sound of a body scraping on dirt is followed by the sound of the second mans deep voice.

“Stay there and for the love of the gods, keep quiet!” He returns to you and the thin wooden spaces that connect you. “Please, citizen, tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.”

Citizen? You’ve only heard two types of people call others that; Citizen Guards and Standing Army soldiers. The former, to assure people that they are all equal citizens under the law. The later, to make sure people know they are above it. Despite the word, this box hidden man could be anyone. You think for a moment before responding.

“Sorry, but you first stranger.”

He sighs. “My name is Bafford, I’m ... I’m a member of the Citizen Guard...or was. I’m now a prisoner down here, along with, er...around a dozen and a half men and maybe...two dozen women, all captured by pirates to be sold as slaves or worse. Now please, tell me, who are you?”

You pause again. If they’re prisoners then anything you say could be passed on to their guards. They know you’re here so that damage has been done, but they could also provide the information you need if you gain their trust. That is, if they really are prisoners and not just pirates that are messing with you. That last thought sends you cold for a moment before you shake it off. When did you get so cynical?

No, everything suggests that they are genuine. Prisoners and slaves; victims of Wendigo’s barbarism. If they’re being honest with you then you can be honest with them. “Considering where we are, I’d rather not give out my name, but... I’m an agent of the principalities and I’m here to kill Captain Washkin. I’m...I’m not here to save you” You wince at your own lack of tact before quickly standing and looking closely at the boxes. There’s a thin space at the top of the doorframe. You see the black iron bars that the boxes are pushed against, crudely but firmly set into the stone. The three rapists in the other room, the island, the number of prisoners, all sounding weak; you do the math. The results aren’t good. “I...I don’t even think it’s possible.”

You hear the first mans **** moan; the sound of crushed optimism. You feel like a failure. One of the first rules of law you learned was that the life of an innocent takes priority over the life of a criminal, yet there is nothing you can do for these people. You could kill the guards with some help from a poison blade. Perhaps sneak all of them out through the window and into the woods with a lot of luck, but then what? Magic a boat out of thin air? You would have to steal one from the docks, likely single handed. Plan A has better odds of success.

You duck back down and try to explain it to them. “I’m... I mean, I’m here to kill Captain Washkin. With her dead, her spies in the military are lost and I can go to them, get them to come here, break her forces and free you. I-I’m sorry.”

The moan turns to a weak “noooo” before he’s hushed to silence by several other voices. Evidently, your audience beyond the boxes had grown past two people at some point. Guard Bafford responds for them.

“No, don’t worry, I understand. That’s smart actually. We’re underfed, weak, we’d be no help. Unless you came in on a boat that can take three dozen people? We won’t be able to swim very far and unless we get off the island then we’re no better off.” You’re a bit surprised by the remark. While he says he’s one of the Guard, they don’t necessarily train for this situation. Nor does it guarantee that he would be strong enough to accept the truth of it. You’re a little bit more impressed when you realise his comment wasn’t directed so much at you as the other people listening in. He sighs, “Do I have your word that you’ll come back for us?” His voice is strong as he whispers but you hear it crack faintly, hints of despair kept at bay.

“Yes, you have my word.”

There’s some discontented shuffling at this. A voice that you haven’t heard before chips in, this time an old man whose distrust filled rumbling whisper can clearly go no quieter. “Answer an old man true lass; are ya doing this for the money? Killin the bitch, I mean.”

You think for a moment. Are you? You know the answer and give it honestly.

“I’m doing it because it’s right.”

The shuffling stops briefly and complete silence takes its place. When it continues it has a different quality; somehow more... reassured? That could be your imagination. You take a moment to ask your own question.

“Is there anything you can tell me that could help? I know she’s here in the mansion but not where”

There’s a quiet murmuring before the Guard responds. “No, sorry. They put bags over our head when they brought us here so we haven’t seen much.” The silence that follows feels awkward. So much for that then. “We can pray...for your success. I will, at least.”

You’ve never heard a man sound so sincere. You hear the shaking voice of the first man whisper, “We all will.”

There’s a murmur of agreement from the others.

You had hoped for insight into the plans of your target, the layout of the building or the number of guards. All you can get is all they can give; prayer. Maybe that will be enough. You’ll certainly take what you can get.

“Thank you.” You move to leave.

“Hey.” The voice of the Guard stops you. You hear him stand, followed by the sound of grunted effort and an arm sliding over wood. You stand and hear his whispered voice above. “’Justice Reigns’ right?” The call of the Citizen Guard. A greeting, a parting, a promise, performed with clasped hands. You reach up into the darkness and find his reaching through the thin gap at the top of the door. You clasp his hand. It feels emaciated.

“'Justice Reigns.'”

It means different things at different times, but here the meaning is clear: Not yet, but it will.

You let go and quietly move back down the corridor to your previous vantage point behind the crates. The men are still sitting with their backs to you, though the conversation they were having before seems to have fallen into a relaxed silence. Have you missed your chance to overhear them? You may have to go blindly up the stairs after all. The need to move, the need to act starts to build. Before, it was just your own life on the line, now it’s the lives of three dozen or more people. You can almost feel their eyes on you. Dangerous eyes. Upping the stakes won’t make this easier. You take a moment to rationalise it, breathing deep and forcing yourself into stillness. You’re here to kill Captain Washkin; that was the goal from the beginning. Nothing has changed. The only thing that’s different now is that when you escape the island you need to tell everyone you can about the people you just met. That comes after. There’s no reason to think about them until that time. No reason to let them distract you. It feels like a slight betrayal to put them out of your mind. You will keep your promise however.

You take another deep but quiet breath. The process has always been relaxing; sorting and organising your thoughts. You sometimes like to imagine your mind like a library or your father’s workshop; a place for everything and everything in its place. The need to move fades and focus returns, and as if waiting for the right state of your mind, the murmured mumbles of conversation start up again from the three distant men. You occasionally catch words as they echo slightly off the walls. ‘Retched’ or possibly ‘respected’? It just too far and too quiet to know for certain. You start debating if you should get closer when the man with long greasy hair suddenly stands. He walks the short distance to the man in the stocks and squats before his head, lifting his chin and brushing his hair aside almost gently. The queasy feeling in your stomach mirrors the one on his face as you both realise what’s coming next. For now, soft words hum from the greasy man; too soft for you to hear yet holding the attention of everyone down there. Whether the man or the woman, someone is going to be **** again. The only thing you can do is ask yourself if you have the stomach to watch.

If it’s like before, they’ll talk louder. Information will flow and you may be able to learn more before proceeding. On the other hand, you didn’t think you would be down here for as long as you have. It’s hard to tell how much time has passed. Does it matter? You may miss your target if she moves on but as long as you don’t know where she is or what she’s doing, rushing seems just as dangerous and potentially pointless.

Stay or go? Stay or go? It’s the perfect time. All eyes are on the two men. Knowledge or action? Should you stay or should you go?