Try to get the amour and enter the inn as a man.

You’ve been told that there’s often at least one women pirate in most pirate crews, but that just means they aren’t exactly common. You can’t guarantee that the yellow and red pirates have enough women in their crew to be lost amongst them, and a disguise that doesn’t work is no disguise at all. You cross your arms, drumming your fingers. Before deciding anything, you reason that the men will need to be fully passed out to proceed, and so you quickly move down the street to the building they now occupy to check on them, listening out for the tell-tale sounds of a good night’s sleep.

Even before you stop, before you even get close, you hear the snoring as it saws through the rotting walls, but it only takes one of the two to be awake for this to go badly wrong. While one fell asleep and was dragged, you only know the other fell, and you can only hear one loud obnoxious rattle, smothering all other sounds within.

You take a quick look about the street and see nothing but the eyeless stares of the gaunt and decomposing houses. It would be spooky if not for the cheers at the inn. Due to the way the moonlight falls there is little true darkness here, save for the empty sockets all around, and your nauseatingly coloured top, even washed out in pale light, guarantees detection if someone were to look your way. Your ears strain at the door, hoping for some sign, silently willing some second production of unconsciousness to manifest. Should you give up? You could always go straight to the tavern, its cheery noise of merriment inviting you to do so. Its cheer mixes with a new sound, the distant conversation steadily coming up the path, getting nearer by the second. If they crest the hill with you still on the street then they will definitely see you, skulking next to a seemingly abandoned building. At best, that’s some questions you’d prefer not answer, and you’d rather not think of the worst.

The final moments you spend standing in the soon to be not-so-deserted street seems to drag on uncomfortably, with no sound of a sibling snores to the one currently cutting the night. The window to give up, to walk to the inn without suspicion, seems to pass in a blur, and just as you see a white sleeved arm of one of the travellers, you make your decision and swing round the door, into the darkness of the building.

The moment you do, you are greeted by the first long snore of the recently , mixing in harmony with the now familiar rasping drag of the original sleeper. Heart hammering, you nearly walk up and kick the man for taking so long to fall asleep. The sources of the rasping snores come from two places, ill-defined in the dark of the building: a form lying in the middle of the floor, which you take for the dragged and dumped man, and the recent sleeper, who sits upright in a corner with his head against the wall.

Looking to the centre sleeper, who obviously invested more in his alcoholic business venture, you walk up carefully, not wishing to trip and fall onto a rude awakening. Leaning down to where the floorboards vibrate under his snores, you take a moment to push on his shoulder to test his sleep. He snores on. You push harder, shaking him slightly. Not even a break in the phlegmy march of his stupor. Stopping shy of a hard slap in the face, you take his inaction as the generous invitation it is, feeling out and undoing the buckles at both sides of the studded leather. That done, you lift his limp and heavy arms, untying the straps down the leather that partially covers them. The chest opens upward, like a book on its side, thanks to hinges in the shoulders that are covered by painted wooden plates. The leather tassels of its skirt are half the armours length, so they drape and drag over him briefly before drumming like raindrops on the tough leather. The arms, made of wide leather strips tied together, wave in empty excitement as you move the rest, stopping only when you can go no further thanks to the bulky helmet. You gently lower it back down to deal with that fist.

You paw your hands over the dome, finding leather reinforced with some hard backing. You feel out any straps, finding none, fingers rasping over stubble and steady breeze. Something feels wrong with it. Removing and gently putting the helmet to one side, you continue your work, silently rolling the drunk over and freeing your new bosom hider. Helmet and armour at the ready, you pick up the helmet and take it to the rotting domiciles front door, peering out before you make any move. You see that the arguing sailors you narrowly avoided before are standing some way down the street and are deep in conversation. The white sleeved arm seen previously was now connected to a red and white ensemble that was shared by his argumentative partner.

Moving the studded headwear into the moonlight just beyond the doorless doorway, you examine it, turning it as you need to. It has a large face strap that would provide limited protection for the mouth and nose, but hide your face perfectly, and it has a solid leather top that’s reinforced with discs of pressed mettle. The back of the helmet has a thick scale of leather plates that fall down, like hair, to protect the back of the neck, but… You run your fingers across a shadow, seeing and feeling with dismay where the helmet is cracked across the top in a very large and distinctive way. It would be no good for a disguise; its true owner would be obvious to anyone who has seen it before, and as these two clearly came from the inn, that would include everyone inside. You sigh. All is not lost but all is not easy. You look to the other reinforced resident and hope he sleeps as soundly as his comrade.

Putting the broken helmet next to the leather armour, you silently creep over to the corner and the second set of snores. He, by the less familiar and quieter tempo he gives, fell second, but you recall the waver of his step and know him to be at least somewhat drunk. His head rests against the wall, trapping the helmet via its back leather neck guard; you will have to move him forwards and keep him there to lift his helmet free.

Calming your nerves and flicking out your hands, you make sure your stiletto is still in its thigh holster, moving forward to stand between the brutes splayed legs. The smell of hard booze blasts out of his mouth with every breath and you start to feel slightly woozy just from its proximity. The operation begins: gently pulling the helmet up and forwards, all while giving his armour a slight pull away from the wall. He weighs a ton, and it’s more a case of removing some of his pressing weight than pulling him away completely. He misses a snore and you freeze in your position, but after a moment of snorting and mumbling, he continues like clockwork. You lean in close as you lift the cap, bit by bit by bit, almost losing your balance in the process.

Success, with him none the wiser.

You use your now helmet holding hand to support yourself against the wall, while the hand holding the front of his armour begins the process of easing your pull and letting him rest fully against the wall. It’s slow -you don’t want to flick the taught leather back at him- but it’s successful and his back and the wall are allowed to continue their loving embrace.

You hear a small thump as his previously pulled forward head falls back, also choosing to join the wall. It’s not hard, but it’s enough to stop his snoring dead in its tracks.

He unknowingly throws his arm out to wave away the irritation, catching you around the waist and grabbing your top, pulling you into a sleepy embrace like some not so small doll. Your weight is pressed against him, your arms out; despite your surprise, you manage to keep a hold of the helmet, fearing it would clatter across the floor otherwise. It takes all your mental discipline not to cry out as the air is squeezed from your lungs by his meaty arm. He lets out a groan, flooding the air with his own heady poison.

Trapped; with your back against his hard leather chest, your behind slipping from his thigh to the cold floor, and your head a frightening distance below his chin, you feel like a toy held by an overgrown child. You slowly put the helmet on the floor next to the outside of his thigh, and move your hand towards your own and the pocket slit upon it.

He begins rubbing your stomach with his vast hands, circling it directly as his meaty fingers push aside the loose bound jacket. Every second brings him slowly to a more awake state, his throat rumbling with a sleepy hoarseness, his shoulders shifting. It’s a process you don’t want to hasten, your arm moving slowly, your fingertips dragging your blade free with spider step movements. You feel his chest rumble through his armour as he slurs out some mumbled words.

“That you Dan? Finally come willin...” he trails off as his stomach rubbing hand reaches further up under your jacket, to the underside of something (or a pair of somethings) that someone called ‘Dan’ probably doesn’t have. Your hand grips, your pull slow. The odd angle makes it hard not to cut your thigh and your upper arm is still hugged in the probing pin.

His hand grabs one of your breasts and squeezes it, eye wateringly hard; harder than it has ever endured before.

“Dan? When you get tits?”

You bite your lip to keep from crying out, the dagger finally free and cutting into the dusty air. While almost hearing the squealing, ale soaked gears of his mind turning, you sense a realisation penetrate his brain. Something along the lines of ‘If Dan doesn’t have breasts, whose breast am I crushing like a damned simpleton?’ Letting go of your now burning bosom, his hand heavily falls into your crotch and grabs your womanhood through your shorts, or perhaps more accurate, doesn’t grab what he expected to. Now trapped only at the waist, you deny him his quest for answers when you turn, free your arm, and ram the stiletto through his neck, into the base of his brain.

He immediately begins to spasm. Neither the smallness of the target or its heavy slick kept you from hitting home. Hearing the drum his shaking body makes against the wall, you stand and drag him away, letting him continue his macabre dance on the floor.

Two for two, and one to go. Gods but this isn’t how you imagined it.

With all mostly silent again and his friend still sleeping on, you put a cooling hand under your jacket and place it on your recently mauled tit. Standing in the dark, you bend over and put your other hand on your knee, steadying yourself as you catch your breath and absorb the moment. When he grabbed your crotch, it was with the same strength as the crushing of the petite breast your currently massaging back to health. Not malicious, or even lecherous, just… you remember a man you knew like that before, who worked in your fathers shop when you were a little girl; dumber than you, even at the time, he was great for carrying heavy things but not so great at not breaking them. This man… His finger had pressed right up to your flower, hard, and had almost gained entrance, shorts and all. If he hadn’t been confused, or drunk...

You shake your head and clear your mind, taking a minute. While the gentle kneading of your breast leaves it feeling better, you know it will sport purple bruises come tomorrow. While you wait, you walk over to the door to examine the street. The two men are still talking in the distance, but otherwise things look peaceful.

Satisfied and semi recovered, you walk over to the armour and start putting it on, tightening the straps to your form as far as they will go. While you imagine that it looks big on you due to your height, its studded shoulders and skirt tassels sufficiently conceals your lithe frame, if not inspected too closely. The arms are similar to a kind you’ve seen before; made to be easy to replace and better than nothing. They are essentially numerous small strips with string between them, too wide for you, but hiding your lack of bulging muscles with shifting effectiveness.

You look back, the drunken brute slowly ceases his fits, and step to him to retrieve the helmet and dagger, which you’re sure to wipe on him before sheathing it in its thigh based home. You make sure the helmets face protecting strap is over your nose and mouth, adjusting it several times as it tilts on your tightly packed hair bun. Ready to walk to the inn, you look out at the street one last time and stop yourself.

Further down the street, past the inn, you see five yellow and red wearing pirates, coming around the corner with confident cheery steps. The two red and white wearing pirates had been joined by a third since you last looked, which it seemed they had been waiting for as they continue on up the street, conversing with him. You watch from your dark doorway as the two groups come together down the road, and when they pass each other, it looks like one of the Wendigo pirates falls, or is knocked down. There seems to be a very tense moment between the two groups, but it looks like numbers prevail as one of the Wendigo pirates says something and they continue on their way.

You nod to yourself, rocking the helmet and forcing you to readjust it again. There’s definitely some animosity between the two groups.

Feeling brave, you decide to field test your new masculine disguise by going up the streets to the inn, passing your ‘fellow’ pirates along the way. Inspired by the armours previous owner, or perhaps taken over by his spirit, you decide to honour him by feigning drunkenness and staggering as he did. Wondering down the street, the five man group recognise your colours and call out to you.

“Bloody Breaker! Ships that way!” one yells,

“Ee’s goin for another one!” his friend retorts,

“Join ya in a bit ey?” says a third.

You savour the thrill of the successful hoodwink, drunkenly waving an arm at them and grunting as they pass, but you soon sober up when they’re gone. You remind yourself that a poorly lit street and glowing tavern are two very different places. The man also called you a ‘Breaker’, likely the title reserved for someone wearing the armour you acquired. The function of such a person eludes you, but you’d bet all the money you have it has something to do with , that is, if you were the type of woman who placed bets on things.

You chuckle nervously to yourself, soon standing outside the raucous inn and mentally amending your previous feeling. You may not have money down, but this is quite the gamble, from start to finish.

After a moment hopping from foot to foot in the empty street, you take a long deep breath, set your shoulders, and step through.