...change into the disguise and try the front door.

Why take the hard way when there’s a front door. It’s not like these dark clothes would help much in there anyway. The guard returns and makes another pass above you, and when he leaves, you start to shuffle backwards, turning around when you have the space and moving back to where you stashed your bag. It waits for you under the tree, a faithful companion if ever there was one, even holding what you need in its mouth; all it lacks is a wagging tail. You grab the leather straps and make your way into the woods, looking for a spot away from prying eyes, yet where the moon can help you to see what you’re doing.

You find it, eventually, after a few minutes searching: a scenic hollow lit by beams of ethereal moonlight. It looks exactly like the kind of places described by poets and story merchants; a place where lovers come to meet perhaps, or where rogues stash stolen jewels or a ghost leaves its final message. No one ever mentions how they all had to squint just to see anything. It’s better than total darkness however, so with a furtive look around you drop your bag and start to strip.

First, you reach behind your head to untie the face mask that covers your mouth, nose and neck, dropping it next to where you put your bag and watching it instantly melt into the darkness. Next, you pull your top up and over your head. Handling the black fabric in the dark is like handling midnight made manifest and you have to go by feel despite the weak beams of silvery light shining directly on it. You hold it for a moment, resisting the urge to fold it, before dropping it on the ground with the mask.

Looking at the dark space it now occupies, no doubt crumpled into a loose ball, your mouth thins; why is neatness such a difficult habit to break? You, again, resist the urge to fold it, instead taking a deep breath of summer night mixed with the earthy tones of nature. Your exposed upper half actually feels pretty good in the night air. There’s no breeze, but your every movement blows night air across patches of sweat, especially down your back and under your arms. It leaves a pleasant tingle in its wake; a welcome cool that has you swinging your arms, turning your torso, and fanning yourself with limp wristed wafts. The summer had been a cool one so far, by Coronac standards, but still far hotter than anywhere in the principalities proper. You decide to slip your trousers down next, leaving the looted pirate clothes in your bag, and enjoy the feeling of exposure.

You feel almost...guilty? Embarrassed at least, but also unable to keep the smile off your face. It’s a feeling of childish naughtiness, of doing something you know you’re not supposed to. You were never prone to such behaviour as a child. Perhaps it’s the air, or the island itself, or the inherent insanity of your mission. You step out of the trousers and slip out of your pumps, standing on them to keep off the rough soil underfoot. You’re completely naked; exposed to all the creatures of the night that call these woods their home. Some unseen insects chirp and click, birds hoot and caw in the distance, but right here, in your hollow, there is only you. Still, you sense the redness creeping into your face, even if the heat of shame dissipates rather quickly from your exposed skin.

The smile fades as a pricking feeling crosses your body, and your hands slowly begin to wrap around you unnoticed, covering your naked form. Could someone be watching? The night is quiet, almost purposely so. You’ve only ever been spied on twice, at least, that you know of. The first when you were fourteen and visiting the outhouse; your scream had chased him away and you never saw his face. The next time was when you were nineteen, having a bath while staying at an inn. That time you had gotten dressed and tracked the perpetrator down. You had found the inn keepers son and his little network of spy holes, and the guards had decreed public humiliation to be enough. One of your first busts. While you were annoyed at the verdict at first, you admit that it was very satisfying to watch and... perfectly suited for the nature of his crime. He’s probably the only man who’s ever seen you fully naked since you were a babe.

The feeling of eyes on your body is the same now as it was then, but this time, stillness and doubt rests in the air. You sigh. If someone were spying on you here, on this island of violent criminals, you doubt they’re the kind of person who would be furtive about it; you’d be in far more trouble than a little lost dignity. Perhaps it’s simply some hidden rabbit, ogling a fellow naked creature, or a bird watching for your next bout of strangeness. More likely it’s just your imagination. Either way, the pleasant moment is gone; spoiled in the light of returning reality. You reach into your bag and bring out the pirate garments, still neatly folded as you left them. It’s probably the first time they have ever been treated with care and you hope they appreciate it.

After a few moments, you’ve pulled up the pilfered shorts and tightened the drawstring around your waist. They’re long enough on you that they are basically trousers with space for your ankles to breathe, ending mid-calf with a fair few holes around the back of the knees. You used to loath showing ankles, but the hot summers of Coronac have since tempered that inclination, along with the looser and more practical fashions of its people. The material looks almost white in the moonlight, but you know that the sun would reveal their faded yellow hue. You pat the waistline and find no pockets, necessitating the need to loosen the cord, reach down to your thigh and draw your stiletto that way. No one would ever call you a seamstress but you manage to cut a fairly neat line with the sharpened point of the dagger down the trousers right thigh and return the blade to its holster through your new faux pocket.

The top follows; it’s a worn leather jacket, sleeveless and brutally dyed a mixture of red and yellow colours that mix chaotically, and in no way that could be considered pleasing to the eye. Several unidentifiable stains mar its surface, severe enough to be seen even against its horrible pattern, and it may have once had buttons down the front, but only one remains now. You thread it, hiding the last of your nakedness. While it holds, the jacket is noticeably loose across your chest and you’re able to pull it out and see both your breasts and your feet beneath them just by looking down. It at least hangs properly on your shoulders and your reason that as long as you don’t lean forward, no one should see anything they shouldn’t.

You take a moment to look at the pile of darkness that marks the location of your dropped clothes, holding your chin and considering their use in the upcoming steps. In the end, you decide to repeat the process, pulling the dark top over your garish jacket and pulling the baggy black trousers up over your latest, more ragged pair. Doubling your layers gives you no joy and you begin to sweat immediately, but there is method in your madness; you could have the best disguise imaginable, but being seen skulking in the woods or walking randomly out of them would raise more questions than you have answers for. You’ll need to circle around and join the beaten path, picking your moment to become garishly visible and approaching the manor from the direction expected of a pirate. Thinking about it, you’ll have to join far enough away from the building that no wondering sentry or window based watcher will see you move out of the woods at all. Adding to that, the path would be the expected way to approach, and that likely means others will be using it as well, and that means you’ll have to join the path carefully. You nod your head, satisfied at your choice. You can’t do any of that if you can be seen by any passer-by a half mile away thanks to the world brightest and ugliest jacket. You’ll shed the clothes when you shed the darkness.

After pawing the ground for a moment, the face mask makes a return, left loose so you can quickly yank it off, and finally, you step off the top of your shoes and slide back into them, wriggling your toes to undo their flattening. You hold your foot out in a beam of moonlight. They’re caked in soil from your recent crawl and wouldn’t look too out of place on a filthy pirate as long as no one looks too close. They’ll do as part of your disguise. Checking to make sure you have everything you brought into the grotto, you scoop up your leather pack and make for the mansion again.

It’s not long before you arrive back at the edge of the manor grounds, once more looking at the big building ahead. The garden stretches out before you, but rather than crawling through it, you sneak along its edge, leaving it behind and following the tree line as it bends around to the front of the building. The guard is still at the door, as wide and intimidating as ever, and you sink a little further into the woods when you pass him. The path that leads to him and the front door snakes around to the far side of the building and you keep to the woods as you follow it, hoping to join it without wasting any more time.

Sudden laughter splits the air and turns your head back to the front door. Two men walk out, joking and shoving each other with the unmistakable air of men ending their work and starting their play. They acknowledge the guard with a respectful nod as they pass, before walking down the gravel path you seek to join, heading away from the mansion. Then, not a moment later, two more follow, and two more again. Finally a group of four walk out, talking more earnestly among themselves, like debating philosophers, and those that came out before them wait until the group of ten men total are walking in a large clump; some laughing, some talking, few listening. You wait and watch as they make their slow way down the path, and when enough backs are turned to you, you follow them, sure to keep several trunks behind the treeline as you do so.

The woods narrow, revealing the encroaching shapes and intermittent lights of the village on one side while keeping the looming shape of the mansion on the other. It’s a thick enough stretch of wood that from the middle, you can barely see both buildings; no doubt it was left as a buffer by the noble, placed to keep the noise of the workforce from his holiday home. You trudge onwards, trying not to trip over roots or snap any loose dry branches, watching the group as they curve around the mansion far more easily. It’s hot work. Despite the night, moving carefully and slowly through the woods in two layers of clothes brings about a fierce sweat that soaks your sleeve as you wipe it away. The men move down the path unobstructed, while the treeline maintains its distance from the mansion and the path, letting them get far ahead and out of sight as you work your way around in a wider ark.

Eventually, you find the point the path cuts through the trees to join mansion and village. It’s a wide and somewhat ornate path that hides the mansion with its twist so only either the village or the building can be seen at one time.

The group, which had gotten ahead of you, returns to your sight just at the point the village begins, milling about a set of stone gateposts, loitering on the path and talking in the street for some reason. Are there more of them? A quick headcount confirms, by at least three, and it seems the newcomers have news.

You watch, trying to plan your next move. Before the path, the trees thin, perhaps foraged clean of easy wood in the winter months. Simply walking up to it with such lack of cover looks less and less viable under the eyes of the massed men. True, none are really looking in your direction, but the moment you go from black to yellow and red and move openly, that is liable to change. Joining the path about the bend would be less risky, but still in sight of the mansion and it’s watching eyes. What to do what to do.

Waiting behind a tree, dressed and shaded in shadow black, you peek out and watch the men. They seem… agitated? It hard to tell from a distance. Perhaps if you wait they’ll go away, but perhaps there is another option.

If joining from the middle of the path is impossible without raising suspicion, you could simply join it a little earlier: sneak back and into the village, bare your disguise in an alley or otherwise out of sight before joining the road, then simply walk past the men. It should be possible with a little confidence, and it would be a good test of your disguise, which would need to pass inspection by the front door guard anyway.

As though to tempt you further, you notice that all the men are wearing red and white colours, marking them as members of Captain Washkins crew. While some of that white could be pale yellow, drained under the moon, it seems unlikely that many are from Captain Roland’s ship, and so, unlikely for them recognise you don’t belong here.

All that considered though, failing inspection could be worse when trapped before the crowd of men, and avoidable if they just walked away. So far though, they show no signs of moving.

So, patiently wait for something that may not happen for a while, loosing ever more time, or risk going around and through them?