...sneak through the foliage and go further into the island.

You don’t know who this man is, or what he may have done, but he’ll survive the night as far as you’re concerned. It’s best not to risk losing the element of surprise for an ugly jacket and decaying shorts anyway. Not to mention the risk of someone finding the body or recognising the clothing’s array of unique and distinctive stains.

Wasting no more time on the pissing fool, you slink back through brushes and branches like mist, careful to make no more noise than could be considered an errant breeze. Lacking any other suitable direction, you move along the coast towards the docks area in the hope of overhearing an unguarded conversation. Trees, bushes and darkness guide your progress, until thinning foliage pushes you more inland. The docks stretch out in the distance, frustratingly out of reach, with too much open ground between you and any hope of overheard information. You see a large dirt road leading out of the docks and snaking up the islands natural incline. From what you can see, it has low rough walls and seems well travelled as there are both sailors coming down to join the docks and the bobbing lanterns of those pressing onwards and upwards further ahead. Retreating further back into the forest you begin to climb up the hill as quickly and quietly as you can, keeping the path barely visible on your left. It looks to be the main artery of traffic from the docks to...somewhere, and the men travelling it aren’t simply stretching their legs. With the docks unapproachable, you have little choice but to follow its length anyway, hoping Captain Washkin’s location lies at its terminus.

Seeing no-one on this stretch of the path, you pick up the pace. A stealthy approach requires patience and you plan to steal every second you can, while you can, lest you run out later.

Before too long you find yourself on the outskirts of a small village, mostly comprised of desolate and empty buildings lining a single the street, yet the shapes of men walk the road, hinting at activity within. It has a feel of something long dead brought to life, or perhaps carrion found and feasted on by uncaring creatures. A bright light and various noises reach out to you through the moonlit darkness, marking the still beating heart of this dead hamlet. An inn, from the sound, filled with such activity that it seems to vibrate out down the streets, though in truth it only makes the other derelict buildings seem more lifeless by comparison. Using those buildings for cover, you move through the village streets, confident that your all black gear will keep you married to the shadows, sequestered from watching eyes. You near the inn, its bright lights drawing you in like one of the many moths that flock to its windows, the sickly moonlight on the streets dying back under their glow. The darkness seems stronger with the invasion; the light beaming out of windows, doors, and cracks in the old wood leaving the direct surroundings inscrutable.

One of the roads two walker’s disappears around a corner in the distance and the other soon enters the inn, leaving the main village track empty. You dart across to the other side and into a ramshackle building filled with nothing but dust and darkness, turning to inspect the only target you have. On the face of it, the inn looks like a good place for the good captain to do her usual bad deeds, but you suspect otherwise; if she is on land to talk with one of her high ranking subordinate captains then she is unlikely to do it in a place so noisy and exposed. More likely it would be in a separate location, one where she has an advantage and preferably a show of power. Still, there could be a back room somewhere inside that fits the bill, or at least talk that can send you the right way.

You quickly devise a plan to listen in on as many conversations as possible. The building is three floored and made out of long wooden planks that that have seen better days. The hum of activity radiates into the conjoined buildings on either side of the inn, only two floors each; from the look of it, the new residents have aggressively expanded the inn into said building to increase its size. From the noise alone you know the inside of the inn will be far too busy to sneak into, and the windows are too crowded by people looking to catch a cooling breeze to linger near. Widening your gaze, the conjoined buildings further along get progressively worse in there degradation, but lend themselves to an idea.

Crossing back over and moving at least seven buildings away from the inn, you find one that is barely a shell of what it once was. It looks more…disassembled, than rotted or burned, but the result is the same, with its missing roof exposing the even the lowest floor to the stars above. You carefully climb up the more stable parts of the ruined insides, thankfully still clear of any real rot or weathering, and gingerly step onto the wooden roof of the sixth building from the inn. It creaks horribly but feels stable, and you move across the slightly slanted rooftops, back towards the light and the noise.

The windows of the inn’s third floor look out over the rooftops as you approach, but fortunately they are not attached to rooms lit with habitation. A roof top closer and you heart sinks as you see the metal bars covering them; evidently, you are not the first night-time intruder to have considered such ingress. Closer still and the dower mood fades with fresh seen cause: wooden boards hammered into the side of the building to form a ladder leading up to the third floor roof.

Your heart stops as you slip and fall.

Slamming into the tiled side, you grab the conical tip where the two sides of the slanted roof meet to stop yourself from sliding down to your . A tile slips down instead, coming to rest in the guttering. Taking a moment to breathe and calm your nerves, you get up and slowly continue your trek, staying low and moving quickly.

When you arrive on the wood tiles of the conjoined building, you use the rough ladder of planks to climb up to the inns higher roof top. They feel almost soft underfoot and under hand, clearly exposed to the rains in winter, but they carry you up without complaint. The hum of conversation below is palpable, the whole building purring like a giant cat, and with the help of a crack or hole to listen through, some of it should be understandable. You look around the gently sloped roof and feel a surge of joy when you see a small window in its centre, sitting in a small raised section of the wooden tiles. You crawl over to it, careful not to slip and fall, to look through the dingy glass.

As far as you can tell, the window connects to the top of the inns main hall; a large three story room lined with balconies that lead to the inns bedrooms. There seems to be a lot of movement on the lowest level, but you can’t make it out through the poorly cast glass and so you try and open it. It doesn’t budge and you see why: the metal hinges on it have long since rusted into oblivion. Undeterred, you attempt to the window, holding on to the edge of the raised bulge it sits in to push hard against it, knowing that the general hubbub of the room below would drown out all but the most obnoxious squealing. After a few frustrating seconds with nothing happening you notice the old wooden window frame begin to warp, and grabbing the sides of the window, you pull the whole frame out easily, careful not to let any of the dry wood drop the wrong way.

You put it down carefully, the roof not slanted enough to see it fall, and go to have look through your newly minted hole. You’re immediately beaten back by a wave of heat and smoke, like opening a furnace door; the carried smell of sweat, ale, and pipe rises to the buildings top and spills out, for release into the fresh night air. You wait a moment to let it clear and for your eyes to stop watering before looking through the hole again.

Below you see the large central common room of the inn, packed with people enjoying a party in full swing. A jaunty tune blows from a jarring combination of flutes, whistles, fiddles, claps, and foot stamps, while the loud buzz of conversation also fills the room, lubricated by a large open barrel of ale in its centre that seemed to be acting as a means of free refills. You notice that the room’s occupants are comprised of two separate themes; half the patrons wearing the yellow and red colours of the pirate from the beach, while the other half is in the white and red made famous by your quarry. A flicker of a smile crosses your lips; such a large portion of the Wendigo crew would not have strayed too far from their captain. She is here on the island for certain at least, not that you had any doubts. Nobody is looking up and even if they did, the multitude of candles and lanterns that light the building don’t stretch their glow so high as your position. Observing without fear of detection, you strain your ears, trying to pick out a single conversation in the soup of music, laughter, and the drone of the crowd.

It slowly becomes apparent that this is impossible.

The conversations are too mixed together and too far away to learn anything of worth. You sigh and decide to try a similar trick on one of the adjoining buildings, hoping to find a more intimate room full of private conversation.

Before you can move, the music stops and the crowd slowly hushes. You see an older, but still muscular pirate, with a fluffy white beard like the one worn by your guide, dressed in a loose white top and trousers and sporting a large red sash with a fine looking sabre hanging off it. His authority is apparent when he stands on a chair and draws all but the drunkest eyes to him.

“Ay lads! I bring to you the compliments of Our GREAT CAPTAIN WENDIGO!”

The last part was shouted by him and draws a roar of appreciation from the crowd, their tankards lifting in salute. Those in red and yellow seemed less enthusiastic, but still generous with cheer and splashed ale. “As those hof you what serve under er on ‘The Proud Gull’ surely know, we picked up some guests on the way ear!” This draws a murmur of laughter from the red and white wearing members of the crowd and looks of confusion from the rest. Your eyes and heart harden with the news; pirates have a bad habit of taking people captive and the way he said ‘guests’ makes you think they aren’t willing. Like the announcer of some new circus act, he continues on.

“From a gods forsaken farm on the mainland coast, we rescued em. Saved em from a life o boredom!” Many chuckles rise from this. Only the drunkest and dimmest of them still didn’t know what was coming. “An tonight, they come down ear to show their ‘preciation!” You sense the mood of the room turn from light mirth to savage optimism as four women and a young man are marched in through the back door.

Your suspicions about their ‘guest’ status are confirmed when you see the old clothing they wear; once hardy and serviceable but now stretched and torn, revealing the bruises that speckle the body’s beneath. They’re arranged in what looks like age order, with an older woman who must be in her forties on the left, three women in the centre who looked to be between 26 and 20 and the young man who looked somewhere in the region of 17 to 18. Their reaction on entering the room ranged from wide eyed terror to pitiful crying to sad acceptance. They all have and abundance of fiery red hair, though the older woman’s has lost some of its glow.

The announcer continued his introduction. “Tha’s right! For your evenings pleasure she sends down the latest takins from the mainland. This lot are fresh off the ship and still in their original wrappin! They ain’t even been up to the manor yet so they still got some fight in em!” Your ears perk up at that. On mentioning a manor, he waved in what you think is the North East of the island. You pull your head out of the roof hole and look at the direction he gesticulated in, and sure enough, over some buildings and behind some trees, there’s the vague shape of a house. It stands apart from the hamlet and now you know where to look, you can see faint yellow lights flickering behind the swaying branches and leaves. You don’t really want to see the result of the bearded pirate’s showmanship, but hoping for more scraps of information you look through the hole again.

The older pirate had moved from the chair to a table and had dragged the older woman up with him. Turning her to the crowd and standing behind her, he rips her blouse open to reveal her large breasts to great applause. The stoic look of sadness on her face remained unchanged, only her eyes close.

“This fine figure o woman’s squeezed 7 fine babes out of er puss over the years, that’s 6 girls and a lad.” He reaches to her front and begins to idly knead her exposed breasts, each too big for his hands to contain. He turns them both around, waltzing her about with small steps and insistent grip, and he tilts his head to each of the others still standing in line. “The three eldest girls and the lad is with us tonight, each o which made the trip back special in er own way. Don’t be shy girls! Show em yer goods!” You watch as the men who marched them in pull down there blouses in a similar way to their mother, each of them bigger in the chest than you, but all smaller than their mothers, and all equally red with rough treatment. While the crowd whoops and hollers like dogs, you are shocked to see some women scattered amongst them, and only a couple of those have the sense to seem uncomfortable with the situation.

“Ha ha! And the Rest!” The announcer is barely heard above the agitation of the crowd before the girls ‘escorts’ forcefully lift up their stained and ragged skirts, bunching them up before their stomachs to not hide their earlier work.

The crowd gives its loudest cheer yet. It’s hard to see, looking down as you are, but you’re sure that two of the three girls sport bruises up their legs and across their groin, easily visible under their patches of ginger curls. Perhaps it is only your imagination from your high perch, but you’re fairly certain that a line of dried blood even stretches down the inner thigh of the second eldest. Truth or simply bad lighting, your disgust is very real. Both you and the crowd notice the lack of bruises on the youngest of the three, and their hunger seems to somehow redouble. Fresh tears immediately stream down her face.

Shouting over the crowd now; “Oh! And Briny wants me to tell use lot that the littlest ladies o the bunch is still unspoiled an already in the whore hole.” He says, pointing to the side of the building. “Get in there right quick if you want to get em while there fresh, but you still got to pay.” Seven of the scum below split off and walk through some unseen door to the left of the entrance; one of them is clearly a woman. You hate all of them.

At the revelation of the pirate mauling her boobs, the eldest woman burst into tears and hides her face in her hands. Only you seemed moved by such an obvious display of despair and grief, the room remaining callously joyful.

“As for these 5; watch the teeth and ... share and share alike ey HA Hah Ha!”

He lets go of the woman and pushes her forward, off the table and into the crowd below. The other girls ‘helpers’ each push them forward or in the case of the youngest woman, immediately ram his fingers into her groin as the crowd surges around her. You watch in horror as they are dispersed around the room to the sound of screams and tearing cloth. Their bright hair makes it hard not to see their plight, and after a few seconds there is no part of the room that you can look without seeing the injustice.

You try to track the man responsible for this...this outrage! Looking to the table he was standing on you see instead the older woman back on it, lying on her back as a man lines himself up between her legs. You cannot look away fast enough as he quickly thrusts himself into her while another man continues the rough treatment of her breasts abandoned by the red sashed man. She continues her crying, face covered, for a moment before a third man, seeing her head hanging over the other side of the table, pulls her hands away and began running his penis over her lips.

Blinking angry tears from your eyes you look again for the announcer of this chaos. Your gaze moves to the main door but hitches on the elder sister who, while still standing, was now far less dressed, sandwiched between two men who were at her front and back. She desperately tried to escape by pushing them away from her, and, undeterred, they both weather the weak defence without reaction, reaching down to their crotches before thrusting upward. She throws her head back in a silent scream and for a moment you’re sure her eyes meet your own. You see in a heartbeat the look of shock and horror turn to a look of despair and disgust and they both begin rhythmically pushing into her, front and back. You’ve never seen sodomy before. You look away, not wanting to linger on it now.

With no one stepping out of the front door you desperately look at the back one and are greeted with two very different sights: a small crowd and a big one. In the centre of the small crowd you see the young man with a small group of large and often hairy men, and a couple of women. While one of the men easily pins his arms, another seems to be pulling down his trousers, much to his very apparent distress. Meanwhile, the larger crowd seems to be around the point the youngest woman was standing before. From your high vantage point, you just about see some of her in the crowds centre, facing down with what appeared to be a man on her and a man beneath her. Another man seems to be holding her head and thrusting into it, sending her ginger curls into violent rhythmic shivers. What you assume was one a dress lays in rags at the side of the bile raising scrum.

While it had been only seconds since it all began you can’t see its beginner anywhere. Glancing about the room, you can see the middle girl being bent over and... you’re not sure. A man is pounding into her from behind, but had grabbed her hair and seems to be forcefully walking her about as he does it. He walks her over to the ale barrel and gets a drink in this manner, much to the delight of the laughing crowd.

While you can’t see the crimes maker, you can certainly see its perpetrators. The wooden boards creaks beneath your hands and you realise you have been gripping the wooden frame in your rage. The poor family below, lost in this festival of , used by the worst lot of scum you have ever laid your eyes upon. Your mind searches desperately for a way to kill them, to end this scene, and as you think, your mind gives you a dark response. The ale. The poison vial. The combination of the two.

Looking down at it and trying to avoid seeing anything else, you judge the barrels relative distance to your observation hole and work out that you would have to lean a considerable distance through the window to pour the poison in with any accuracy. Still, it would be possible.

You quickly yourself out of the window and lie on the roof, turning to your back. Your eyes lookup into the stars, the twinkling eyes of the gods, but they see nothing but the echo of the room below, lingering in your minds eye. You your breath out, hissing though the black mask over your mouth, and close your eyes. The mission was all that mattered. Is all that matters. Why kill some stinking pirate scum when it makes it more likely their master will escape? What would you gain from it? Why risk your life for the vengeance of people you have never even met before today?

Long buried memories stir in your mind, woken by the assaulting noise below. Why? Because you swore an oath once.

The logical detective you are today tells you to go, to walk away and not look back. Even if every one of the animals below drank the poison, their master would just get more and the cycle would continue. As long as she lives, there will always be another family torn to shreds.

The angry girl that made that oath so long ago calls you a coward. You’re surprised by how much rage that girl still has, how much a part of you she still is. Your teeth grind and you hand shakes as you grip your thigh and the vial strapped to it. She begs you to do it. Lessons need to be taught.

The vision of the room doesn’t clear from your mind. Perhaps it never will.