...wait for her to go to sleep, then kill her.

Considering the odds of her limping back to her ship verses the certainty of more guests, you opt to wait it out. Waiting has got you this far and frankly, patience is underrated. You look through the hole again, wanting to be as up to date as possible on the goings on in the room.

She’s still leaning against the bed, golden hair hanging limp as she looks at the floor. You listen to the house, quiet compared to the noise that ripped through it earlier, waiting for the sound of footsteps. Any minute now, this Misty character will reveal herself and take her place as the second to last person to see Captain Wendy ‘Go’ Washkin alive.

Time drags on. Minutes pass with a dreadfully slow pace. Your eye starts to ache, frozen on the curvaceous form of the hard used woman. Eventually, she too feels the drag of inactivity, sighing and walking around to the side of the bed to gingerly slip between its crumpled sheets, straightening them to get comfortable. The simple gestures proves her intent to remain and you breathe your own sigh of relief, immediately regretting it as your breath sets the dust on the wall aloft to tickle the back of your throat and nose. A sneezing coughing splutter begins to grow in you, sprinting to the forefront of your face, and as it arrives, you clamp a hand over your mouth and pinch your nose shut tight, sending the aggravation silently streaming out of your eyes and jolting back down into your chest. You turn to the middle of the room and take several minutes simply to control yourself and wipe your face before returning to the hole.

Nothing had changed for all you came close to disaster. Captain Wendigo is still lying in bed, looking tired and worn under a single white sheet. You rest your forehead against the wall, waiting for the time to pass.

Eventually, you hear it; not footsteps, but the sound of the double doors gently opening and closing. Nothing comes after; you can’t her anyone moving through the intervening room, not like Captain Roland’s heavy footfalls. You nearly jump as two knocks land on the inner door, followed shortly by its opening. If this is Misty, she certainly lives up to her name.

After the door closes again and several more silent seconds pass, the woman comes into view. She’s tall, if not as tall as Captain Washkin, and willowy in frame. Her simple, brown, short skirted servants dress seems to be tailored to her form, and while she will never have the figure of Captain Washkin, it nevertheless emphasises what she has in its cut and tight press. Straight black hair hangs down to her shoulders and frames features that seem sharp and predatory, yet soft and attractive.

“Sorry for the delay captain.” Her voice is strangely lilted, as though she was razed on the northern border. Such ancestry would explain her high cheekbones and ever so slightly narrowed eyes. “I was being distracted downstairs. What can a do for you?”

Captain Washkin sighs in response. “And who was distracting you this time?” There’s a weary tone to her voice, lacking the professionalism she used when addressing the man on the roof; her words are easy and carefree, yet you detect a hint of rawness buried under them.

“A nice young man from your ship, called Sam...I think.” The newcomer responds. Her voice carries a rare confidence, a charm, like a singer on a stage, and she addresses her superior as if she’s talking to an old friend, while retaining the deference of a long standing servant.

“And how was your...distraction?” She asks, amused at the coy euphemism.

“Ugh, useful I suppose. I’ve never had a high opinion about anal.” Misty breaks her formal stance to walk over to the bed.

“Tell me about it. It’s as if there isn’t a more fun place to stick it nearby.”

Misty sits on the bottom edge of the bed and leans against one of the bed posts, facing her friend. “Are you alright?” She somehow says it with a smile, as though she knows the response, and indeed, Captain Washkin raises an eyebrow and twitches a lip.

“I’ve been buggered so many times I’m practically calloused down there.”

The newcomer snorts in a very unladylike way before sighing, as a girl in love might, or a crone in mockery. “Mine had enough stamina for both...but at least it was done the right way around.” She pauses before asking in a more serious tone, “Are you alright? Do you want me to apply that salve of yours?”

Captain Washkin sighs again, resigned to her choice. “Ointment, and no. Perhaps if you had arrived sooner. I’m comfortable now. A few scrapes and bruises, and I think he pulled a scab off, but nothing significant.” Nothing significant? You shudder at the mere memory. Her face takes on a wry smile and her voice a cynical quality. “He wanted me to scream, can you believe that?” She says it as though he gave her hog-root flowers on match day, not **** her like an animal. You can’t decide if her cavalier tone is impressive or sad, though after a moment’s thought, you rationalise that it doesn’t matter.

Misty’s face takes on a similar expression. “Good screaming or bad screaming?”

The captain gives her a flat look that she can’t maintain, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards in generous doses. Misty’s expression remains blissfully ignorant, though her mouth takes a noticeably curved quality at the edges. “Ok. So he was no southern stallion then?”

Captain Washkin’s creeping smile breaks into a chuckle at the other woman’s question. “No. That man knew how to show a girl a good time.”

Misty laughs. “I know, my ears are still ringing from the last time you two shared a bed.”

“...and a table, and a wall, and a balcony...” Captain Washkin adds. They share their laughter, letting it bounce between them, warming the room.

“Comparison?” Misty asks.

“Oh Roland bigger, only big thing about the short little fucker.” Fresh peals of snickering come at this, from both of them. One because her friend laughed, the other because her friend needed to laugh. She continues when it subsides. “But it’s how you use it you know? Definitely Quain for the best lay.”

The dark haired woman responds, still chuckling. “All right, all right, no need to rub it in. Kind of begs the question though...”

“Worst? Hum, limiting it to Captains?” Misty nods. “Er, hummmm, probably a tie between Dofan aaaaaaannnd Bloodwater.” You see Misty raze her eyebrows, tempting, clearly after more of the salacious gossip. Your face reddens but you admit, you’re curious as well. “Dofan talks tough, but the moment your mouth touches his dick he’s done, completely, for the day. No licking, no sucking...not even any touching. Just an ‘uuuuuuugh’ and a mess.” They both laugh at the unflattering impression. “Bloodwater just becomes a rock, not moving. Fairly sure he prefers dick but he either doesn’t know it or won’t admit it. How about you? Anyone recent?”

Now it’s Misty’s turn to look thoughtful. She holds a single finger up to her mouth like a child remembering her lessons. “Humm. These two guys from a merchant ship dragged me into an alley a month ago...”

Your eyes widen, you did not expect the conversation to go in this direction.

“Misty...” Captain Washkin says in a mock serious tone, as though it was the other woman’s fault.

“I may have teased them a bit, nothing much.” She responds in an airy way. “They were all set to give me, and I quote, ‘the bloody fucking of a life time you dumb cunt something something’, then guess what?” Captain Washkin’s face falls back into the flat, smile fighting look as she refuses to answer. “Soft as rot. Both of them.” She pouts, “Real kick to the confidence. I offered to suck them but they just walked away.”

You’re shocked. What is wrong with this woman?! Washkin half chuckles as she shakes her head, expecting nothing different.

“And the best...recently?” she asks.

“Oh, the young stud is trying for that. Certainly took my breath away tonight.” You watch as she unconsciously rubs her neck as she says this. Red marks line its front, almost like fingers. She snaps out of whatever thoughts the question rose and asks the captain “So, are you going to kill him?” She’s almost flippant with her bluntness.

“Who, Roland? Eh. Eventually. Certainly before the ‘next time’ he promised.” As the captain says this, a sore look crosses her face and she readjusts herself in the bed, shuffling around in a quest for comfort. The sheet falls low in the process, revealing both her breasts and the necklace between them. They’re still very red, with dark blotches forming unevenly around the nipples.

“Men do like their promises.” Misty responds, “He won’t be the first to not keep his. Are you sure I can’t get you the ointment? You know, I can make you comfortable again afterwards...or during.”

“Maybe in the morning. I’ll have to be up early to deal with those shit eating moneymen and Lord Sparrows assistant. Thank you Misty.”

With those words, Misty nods, stands up, and gives a curtsy that wouldn’t be out of place in a royal household. From the slight lift of her skirt, you can see that it lacks the accompanying undergarments.

“Not at all Captain. Goodnight.”

She walks out of the room with all the grace and confidence she came in with. Even while watching her do it, you cannot hear a single one of her footsteps. The door opens and closes, followed by the double doors opening and closing, and you watch through the peep hole as Captain Washkin blows out the candle on the bedside table and leans back to go to sleep. The other candles in the room are still lit, but reduced to flickering nubs of melted wax supporting flames at the end of their lives. Even as you watch, a candle in the corner of the room goes out on its own, emboldening the creeping darkness that gathers around bed and its occupant.

You listen. Waiting as her breathing slowly deepens. You watch. Her still exposed chest rises and falls with increasing depth. You wait. The moon shifts as the hours slip by, diminishing the little light that spills into the room. Your back aches, frozen in place for too long. You hear the last fading footsteps on the landing come and go as tired heads seek comforting pillows. All the movement drains from the world and the special moment approaches; the heart of night, where all things but you lie down and wait for morning. You move.

Crossing the room slowly and quietly, the position of the exit and the rooms various boxes long since memorised, you open the door with great care, eager to maintain the quiet order of things. The foyer is dark and empty, with several crates missing from the middle of the room, likely long since collected and returned to the merchant ships. Unchallenged, the double doors open next, swinging smoothly and gently just enough for you to pass through. The room inside is complete darkness, without window or lit flame to guide you. The door to the captains quarters should be dead ahead.

You slowly push your arms out in front of you as you begin to move, as measured and as quiet as a snails shuffle. Your hands feel out the table in front of you and the loose pieces of paper upon it. It’s a shame you can’t read them, but as long as you do what you came here to do, their contents won’t matter anymore anyway. You feel along its wooden length, surprised at its wide and low size, and you carefully make your way around it, its right angled corners marking it as square and making the location of the other door much easier to triangulate. When you reach it, your hands gently grope in the darkness, tracing its shape, its frame. and the location of the latch, and you open it with monumental slowness, taking minutes to perform an action that would take a single second.

You slip through into a room that you have only seen through the width of a finger. The bed is before you, lit only by the last gasp of the moons ethereal glow as its final tendrils of light leak though the window. Walking forward, your every step an epic tale in silent risk and exhilarating reward, you draw your blade, its single sliding scratch against its leather holster no louder than a gnat’s gasp. You move to her right side and soon find yourself looking down at her.

She’s peaceful. Her face is serene and beautiful through equal parts makeup and nature. What kind of creature is this? This is no villain from a bard’s tale. No monster with fangs and claws. She’s just a woman; as capable of joy and sadness as much as anyone; beaten by the world, but not broken by it. You move the black and silver stiletto blade over her heart. Would the world be better off lacking such sprit? Her face is blank and passive, coated with the innocence of sleep. She’ll be a legend for the rest of your life, no matter what you do: a tale told by mothers to put their children back on the right path. What role will you play in those stories?

Her eyes open.

Your dagger falls.

She breathes deep as it slides between her ribs and into her heart. Her hands grab your arm and your hand while her eyes go wide, looking into your own with azure pools of shock.

“Shhhh,” you whisper, unable to hold back your kindness. You hold her face as the shock turns to fear, “Don’t worry, shhhhh, it’s done, ok, it’s over.” Her hand tightens on yours with its remaining strength. “I’m here,” you say, unable to think of anything else. You move in close, gripping her hand with your own, giving her strength in her final moments. She’s silent as she breaths her last. You keep holding her hand and her face. “I’m here” you whisper.

Only silence responds.

You don’t know how long you stand like that, hunched over the cooling corpse of a dead woman. There’s no rush, you reason. You look into the half closed blue eyes, lifeless as marbles, and slowly let her head rest against the pillow. You look at the blade. It seems respectful to leave it there, but you’ve seen enough crime scenes to know a lead when you see one. A fine blade made by a talented smith that would recognise his creation and remember who he sold it to. A thin thread leading any pirate with both brains and a lust for **** right back to you. You put your hands on the handle, making sure you have a good grip before pulling it free in one tug. The jolt sends her rocking slightly, her breasts sliding with the momentum like jellyfish. The most dangerous woman in the known world and the toughest you have ever seen, parted from her life and her essence. Reduced to dead meat before your eyes.

What a waste.

You wipe the blade on the sheets and carefully put it back in the sheath against your thigh, flexing your fingers for what comes next. It feels almost ceremonial, like some burial right. You reach around her neck, fiddling with the fine hook that holds the chain closed around her, and the action forces you to lean in close, looking directly into her lidded eyes as though for a kiss.

Undoing it proves tricky, the necklaces gold length covered by her gold hair. Your hands shake as they struggle to undo it, leaving you leaning in closer, and you jump when you feel her nose touch yours, and feel shame when your breath break on her lips and nothing breaks on yours. The dead woman is nothing to fear any more. Her murderer on the other hand...

The hook stabs your finger as it comes loose, a tiny pin prick from the fine lock. You pull away sharply, knocking the bed and giving her another jolt of pseudo life that slides one of her breasts on to the necklace that lies between them. You mentally apologise as you grab and move the soft flesh away, gently removing the object you came so far for. It’s surprisingly heavy. You reattach the hook in the moonlight before throwing the chain over your head and tucking the necklace between your own smaller breasts. With one final look at her face in its eternal sleep, attractive even now, you move the sheet up to cover her respectfully. Her crew will find her come morning. You step back and busy yourself with the mechanics of escape, sucking your stinging finger in the process.

The wide window on the room’s far side becomes your next target. It opens out onto a shallow, tiled roof that slopes down far enough to drop safely to the ground. You climb out feet first, sliding slowly down and over its edge until you’re hanging from the roof by your hands, and there you drop safely onto the grass below and cross the lawn surrounding the building, escaping into the woods beyond. The slanted light of the sinking moon makes traversal slow, more a thing of feeling than seeing, but the stars past the canopy guide you to the back of the island and leave you with plenty of time to think.

People say that killing weighs on you. That you feel it pulling at your heart and your soul. You always suspected that such talk was made of well-meaning lies told to ward people from a dark path. The type of people here seemed to feel no weight. They walked high even as they perform deeds of the lowest order. They laugh and joke with each other about their worst depravities, boasting about their most violent murders. How could they do that while feeling even the slightest influence of the act? You always assumed that they simply didn’t. You sigh heavily into the darkness. You feel it. Feel it like you’ve never felt it before. The man you killed before tonight, the drunk, who attacked you for trying to help the wife he beat, was killed in self-defence, the heat of the moment. You never felt any regret that you acted the way you did, which was the only way you could, other than give in and die. The other people who died because of you did so by the hand of the guard, their deeds sending them to the executioner. You watched all of them go, knowing that justice had been done and done by more hands than your own. After you arrived at the island, well, any criminals that fell were a means to an end; this end. And now that it’s here, it feels different. You remind yourself that the writ for her **** was written by the same people that would see her hang if brought back alive. That killing her this way was quicker and **** than she deserved.

It doesn’t help.

The woods fall away to another grassy field, not smooth and controlled like the manor grounds, but rough and tall with dips and angles that catch and twist unwary ankles. Beyond it is the sea of the archipelago, lost in the quickening dark of the night. Or is it early morning now? The dawn of a new day. You smile, finally, liking the sound of that. Maybe you’ll take it easy after all this. Retiring seems too...unlikely, but you wouldn’t mind a break.

You make your way down the cliff that separate the land from the sea, a slope of broken stones that you slide down rather than climb. You know that you won’t be taking another **** mission any time soon; killing’s not really your style, and you decide here and now to wash your hands of it as best you can. You take a deep breath of sea air and look at the gods twinkling above, pointing the way to the distant island your guide will be waiting at.

The island is quiet. The world is quiet, save for the gentle lap of the waves against the stones. You wade into the water and start to swim.