…Right, to outsmart them.

“You expect-“

You go right, sprinting through the wide arch into the dark room. The people in the corridor react immediately, with the front door guard and the newcomer ‘Tony’ giving chase. Captain Roland abandons his half-finished sentence.

“GET HER!”

The meagre light that reaches in through the foyer and the high arched windows shows an old ball room, currently littered with large wooden crates. The moon is away, and beyond the foyers light, you run through heavy gloom, looking for the place that a door should be as the men come rushing in behind you. Instead, all you find is a sudden impact, which hits you in the guts and drags you down to the floor.

You desperately hammer your fists against the unknown bulk before two more shapes descend on you, restraining you further. They add weight around your body, moving to your legs, stopping your kicks before they have a chance to happen, grabbing for your arms.

You reach down to your right thigh, free hand clawing into the trouser slit and pulling out your dagger, but the flailing arms come from all directions in the darkness and tangle with your own. The blade clatters across the wooden floorboards.

You writhe like an animal in the grip of the shadows that brought you down, twisting and turning, pulling at you pinned limbs, growling savage and ferocious curses, far too angry to be frightened. How dare they!? Who waits in the dark like cowards? You could have escaped if not for these sly dogs! You reach your mouth over to the right, biting into one of the arms that holds your own.

“AHHHH!”

You taste blood. Two more forms stomp across the floorboards -the door guard and the newcomer that ruined everything- helping to restrain you further. Their thick arms wrap your neck and your squirming body, and by combined effort, they lift you, pulling you from the floor and hauling you toward the light.

Your gamble on the darkness had back fired spectacularly, but you don’t go easy. It’s just so unfair! So unbelievable! Do these people just live in dark corners like rats?! You thrash against the dim shapes, choked to silence, moving with enough indignation to draw curses and panting from your restrainers. It takes all five of them to drag you into the light of the foyer. Seeing the three people that were lurking in the dark calms you slightly, the light robbing them of the worst your imagination gave them to be. They consist of two men and a woman, one man bald and the other with scruffy brown hair, while the woman looked stronger and manlier than both. Surprisingly enough, the bald man is wearing the same yellow and red colours that you are. What they were doing in the dark is curious but hardly important right now.

“Bitch bit me!”

You see the man with unkempt brown hair pressing one arm into his chest to stop the bleeding. They all look at you expectantly, suspended in the air by five people, as though you should apologise. Your attempts at escape paused momentarily, going limp as you conserve your strength, hoping that they will drop their guard. Instead, you look back at each of them, meeting there stares head on.

The men in their finery, no doubt pirates, but also merchants, or smugglers of some kind, remain agitated. They burn with a need to ask you questions, yet several see calmer, having worked out that the crews killing each other means their boats and merchandise are probably fine. The men and woman holding you seem to regard you like a caged animal. You notice several of them ease their grip, yet the giant of a door guard still has his arm securely around your neck to ward off any further biting. All of you breathe quite heavily.

Captain Roland looks at you with angry confusion, the limited capacity of his brain still wondering who you are and what you’re doing here. Captain Washkin looks at you with...something. Contemplation perhaps? Her expression is otherwise unreadable, and turns neutral as she starts barking order to the room.

“Tony! You say its crew on crew?”

“Ay Mam!”

“Well Roland, it looks like we’re going to have to sort this out before it gets out of hand.”

Captain Roland looks at her suspiciously, then at you suspiciously, before showering the rest of the room with heavy dose of suspicious glances. Whatever connections he thinks he’s making, he soon acquiesces with a still very suspicious sounding,

“All right.”

Captain Washkin start to walk down the stares and towards the door, giving a few final order in the process,

“Rock! Get whoever is in the cellar out of the cellar, and bring them to me. The rest of you lot! Take her upstairs to my room and tie her up! Then catch up with us! Vanessa! You stand guard and make sure she doesn’t escape!” She turns to the merchants, walking backwards as she passes them. “Gentlemen! I may be some time, please feel free to return to your boats and make sure your goods are in order, or enjoy some drinks from the cellar until I return.”

The tirade of orders lasted from the stairs to the door, which she turns on her heel and walks through without a backwards glance. The orders she gave seemed to bring life to everyone in the room. Captain Roland follows her out into the night, looking everywhere for ambushers, and after handing custody of your neck over to the bald man, the aptly named bolder of a door guard trots off into the dark room you were dragged out of. You hear the finely dressed group of men speculate on the cause of the explosion, some leaving, some staying. Meanwhile, still remaining limp, you are quickly carried upstairs, feet first, by the remaining group. Lacking their biggest member, they hold onto you very tightly, as though you could spring loose at any moment and begin to eat them one by one. The man you bit is especially weary. You continue to conserve your strength, however, letting the group carry you up without incident and waiting for the best moment to strike. Even you are a little embarrassed by the biting. He deserved it, but such savagery was hardly your shining moment.

The group takes you through the same double doors at the top of the stairs that the captains walked out of, into a small windowless room dominated by a low table. It’s low enough and wide enough that the group do not go around, jolting you as they step up and walk across. You don’t see much else, save the ceiling, as they pass through the room, exiting through a second single door, its narrow size slowing them down. The second room is clearly a bedroom; it has a large four poster bed on the far side that dominates the space, a table, some chairs, a wardrobe, and some scattered piles of clothes in little heaps on the floor.

One of the men holding your arms passes your wrist into the grip of the other, both moving enough to see a closed door on the room’s left side and an equally closed window on the room’s right. You make note of the exits, determined to use at least one of them. The free man looks about for a means to tie you up, causing the group to debate for a small moment whether they should use the bed sheets, curtains, or items from the piles of presumably dirty clothes. The crux of the argument is that, while the clothes are the logical choice, Captain Washkin may not be best pleased to find them damaged in anyway, and the men want no part of rummaging through any of her potential intimates after some ‘incident’ they are all aware of. The argument comes to an abrupt end when one of them finds a length of rope; what such a rope would be doing in a bedroom goes uncommented on by the group.

They move you to the bed and hold your arms behind your back, either side of one of the bedposts. After tying your wrists together, they also tie your ankles together for good measure, using the single piece of rope as economically as possible. A pirate being a sailor as well, the knots feel quite sturdy, with a few brief tugs on your bindings tell you of their security. Though you haven’t made a move to bite him again, the long haired man sifts through some of the clothes from the floor before finding one, wrapping it tightly over your mouth. Whatever the fabric is, it’s covered in a crusty residue that has sunk into the material, the smell of sweat and something else assaulting your nose.

Your breath catches as the bald headed pirate steps forward, putting his hand on you exposed stomach and beginning to slide up, under your jacket.

“Stop. Captain doesn’t want her messed with.” The hand stops, resting just on your first few ribs, the words coming from the blond haired pirate messenger; Tony, you heard him called. He glares at the bald man with fiery eyes.

Looking incredulous and not removing his hand, the bald man responds,

“I didn’t hear that! Just wanted this bitch tied up and for us to catch up with her later.” He turns to you, smiling. “Way I sees it, we could all have a go before then.” He turns back. “‘sides, she’s in Roland’s colours! Matter of pride that we teach her that ain’t right.”

Your legs clench together involuntarily at his repulsive suggestion, and Tony again comes to your rescue, for which you silently thank him for.

“Captain asked Vanessa to guard her, not us. Not you. Sound like something she would ask if she wanted this one fucked?”

The bald man looks bitter, but he’s quickly stared down by the others and their collective agreement. He lets go and walks away, soon followed by his fellows, with the exception of your new jailor, Vanessa.

The strong looking woman looks down at you for a moment. Her brown hair seems to bulge out before being corralled into a long tail at the back, hidden behind a square jaw which is set as she accepts her responsibility for you. Her arms bulge with defined mussel, looking more than up for the task, and she stands taller than most men as well. If not for the ample thighs shown by her quite short shorts, and the twin bumps under her long and loose, dress like shirt, you might be convinced that she was anything but.

She walks over to a nearby chair and sits down, watching you for any signs of dissent. You, oddly enough, feel remarkably calm. You know that you shouldn’t. You know it’s just the lingering thrill of fighting for your life, still too buzzed for fear. The heart pounding energy that makes you feel invincible should wear off sooner or later, and you deciding that it’s best to use it while you have it.

You look about your ersatz jail, trying to think of a way out. The windows and doors seem to be the only exits from the room, but your confinement is more local than that. Feeling the bindings behind your back, as well as the bed post you are propped up against, you can tell they are separate; you are not tied to the bed post as much as around it and can move your arms and wrists with a fair amount of largess. You look up and see that the post is connected to a wooden canopy and looks very sturdy, so upward offers no freedom; as the long rope goes from wrist to wrist to ankles, you’ll need at least one wrist undone to get free. You immediately start picking at the knots. Keeping casual, you manage to manoeuvre yourself, turning and sitting on the end of the bed with a little awkward difficultly. Your ankles are bound together as well, but unlike your arms, they are not locked around the bed in any way. Slipping quietly from your shoes and feeling further with your toes, the post nearer the bottom turns from smooth rounded wood to a square rectangular base that has a slight edge to it. It will take time, but you begin to rub the rope over the sharp angle as circumspectly as you can, rubbing and picking and playing both angles at once.

Even doing this gently, the noise of rope rubbing on wood is audible. Your buff guard hears, but you stop before the noise can be traced to its source, wracking your brains for a better solution. After a moment, you decide to hum a tune through the mouth rag to hide the noise; ‘The bird that weeps for the moon’ is both suitably long and, hopefully, distracting enough. Thinking through the spoken lines of the full epic and its many verses, you bitterly think that it’s quite relevant to your situation, especially with the moonlight peeking through the windows and promising undelivered freedom. After a slow build up, eyes looking disinterested and idle, drumming your fingers on the post in faux boredom, you begin to work on the rope at your ankles, your guard idly listening as she picks copious amounts of dirt out from under her finger nails.

You rub and rub and rub as you pick and pick and pick, humming loudly. The varnish of the lower post begins stripping away before the rope has a chance to, but it slowly leaves wonderfully serrated chips of frayed wood in its place. The rope at your hands is a little harder; if you could see what you are doing then you’d have a chance; you even find a point loose enough in the knot to pull the rope through, but it’s the rope connected to your ankles and pulling it simply pulls on them. Time moves on, and soon enough your guard loses her interest in the lost cause of her cleanliness. She stands and wonders around the room, her own curiosity making her pick through the piles of dirty clothes on the floor, occasionally holding some of them up to her form. You watch; evidently, Captain Washkin has quite a gaudy sense of fashion, and is both bigger in the hips and chest than the woman before you. Some of the garments are barely recognisable; undergarments with unnecessary frills and tassels, silks that wouldn’t properly cover the wearer, tights made of what looks like finely woven fishing nets. You see that the piles have a sense of strategy to them. The more sexual items are on the top, likely there to distract any negotiating partner who would rather picture them on their owner than any deal at hand.

Timing your most vigorous movements for when your guard has her back turned, the bindings about your ankles finally break as you reach the epic’s fourth stanza: ‘The twit that twittered’. That means that you have been at this for… forty five minutes?! It feels less than that, perhaps caused by not needing to sound out the words.

Your guard had taken to opening and looking in the various draws and wardrobes, careful not to leave anything disturbed, but eager to learn more about her whore of a captain. With her back turned and her eyes busy, you pull your ankles apart and finally pull the frayed end of the rope through the knot at your wrists. After a few minutes of frantic scratching and pulling, the knot gives way to freedom and you remove the rag from round your mouth. One hand is tied, but it is tied to nothing.

The door is closed and latched, promising a rattle upon opening. The main window to your left is also latched, while the others look like they’ve never been opened before, each leading drops that your legs are likely unable to handle. The door to your right is next to the pirates rummaging. No matter how you look at it, all means of escape involve a far stronger woman chasing you down.

You had kept up the hummed tune, faltering slightly as you think, and so she had not heard the sound of the rope or your stand. Unfortunately, it binds you now; moving would bring the hum with you and cause her to turn. You let it fade, becoming a soft lullaby hum at odds with the dramatic crescendo that would have people clapping in praise were it sung on stage. Currently distracted by her own rummaging, kneeling and searching through the bottom of her captains wardrobe, your guard doesn’t notice. You take some slow steps around the bed and grab a heavy looking candle holder, intent on clobbering the guard and making your escape without pursuit. The song ends, the quiet moment before the next phase stretching out like a carpet to muffle your walk up to her, until you’re right at her back. She’s holding some thin tin case in her hands, finely crafted and well-polished. You raise the heavy candle stick, near staggering under its heft. She flips open the case to reveal a makeup tin, containing some brushes and powders, small sets of mixed paints for lips, and on the underside of the lid, a small but very clear mirror. Your eyes meet hers through the silver backed glass, sharing a look of surprise. You bring the heavy object crashing down onto her, battering through the hand she throws out to catch it, but deflecting off it and landing upon her shoulder over her head. Her other hand makes a fist, and she uses it to fill your vision with darkness in one blow.

---

You’re not sure how long you were out for. Not long you suspect. You wake up with a pounding headache, feeling each beat of your heart pumping blood though your hurting brain, each beat an echo of the punch you received. You feel pressure around you, as though being crushed in some great fist, near hard to breathe as it holds you upright. Your eyes open, stinging in the scant lantern light, to see that the bed sheet is wrapped tightly around your torso and the bedpost, pinning arms and hands and hips in its embrace. One of the curtains is also wrapped around your ankles, pinning them to the same wooden leg you used to rub your way to freedom before. This time, not even blood can move through the tightly wrapped fabric tornado. Together, they keep you standing upright against the post, facing the room but keeping it completely out of your reach. Your sullen looking guard tightens the bundles with extra knots of varying complexity and paranoia, ending with a scarf tied around your mouth and holding your head to the post as well. At least you won’t get cold. The scarf is thankfully a significant upgrade to whatever it was before; it even seems to be slightly perfumed.

Your guard sits in the chair and admires her handy work, determined to not let you escape again. She nurses her hand and shoulder, rolling both before leaning back on the chair.

You immediately begin to struggle against your bindings, tight cloth near to **** in the press of your chest. You wriggle like a worm. Like some cocooned insect. The sheet is wrapped around you several times, the locked knots unmoved by your efforts. Your guard smiles.

“Mmmhmhmmhm!” You call out to her, muffled words lost in translation, trying to convince her to at least remove the scarf.

She doesn’t fall for it. After pulling and pressing against the unmoving cloth for long enough to quite thoroughly wear you out, the reality of the situation starts to sink in. It doesn’t take long to look through the short list of your options. Every plan you make starts with escaping your bindings, and there is no way to even move your toes, let alone your hands. You pout, your chance to escape lost thanks to bad luck. Maybe you lost your chance the moment you poisoned the ale; it was a foolhardy move at best, caused by your emotions getting the better of you, and that mutton chopped bastard.

The hours stretch by as worse and worse fates dance in your mind’s eye. You don’t imagine Captain Washkin will be in a forgiving mood if she works out that you are responsible for the riot that burned down most of her island and no doubt killed some of her crew. The sounds of fire and fighting have faded to nothing now and you wonder when she will be back. More importantly, you wonder what she will do to you when she does. You remember the several red haired women at the inn; will you share their fate? Will they kill you? **** you? The possibilities get worse and you realise that you’re getting yourself worked up; when she returns, she will probably want to talk to you before anything else. One last chance at saving yourself.

You work on the words that will save your life, hoping for the chance to speak them.

Several more hours pass, the last of a night unslept. The sun starts to smear the horizon with blood red light, purple bruised clouds giving way to fiery scarlet scars. Your thoughts had petered out, plan too limited in scope for intricacy. They had not distracted you and your eyes lie as heavy as your guards, both pairs still resolutely open. Upon hearing the sound of boots coming up the stairs, both you and your guard perk up from your respective mental half naps. The door swings open and Pirate Captain Wendy ‘Go’ Washkin walks into the room. She looks at your predicament with some amusement before turning to Vanessa and raising her eyebrow.

“Has anything...happened, while I was gone?” Despite being about the same height as the other woman and lacking some of her muscle, the captain seemed to tower over her.

“N-“, your guard thinks better of the lie and instead rephrases, “Well, um, she almost...got out, a bit. It was them, prolly didn tie er up right mam.” You listen as she tells a somewhat more dramatic version of events that paint her in a more heroic and competent light, leaving out her own curiosity.

You make a study of Washkin’s face, seeing an almost unnoticeable movement when the story veered from the truth, like a twinkle in her eye.

“That’s enough Vanessa. Wait downstairs.”

Vanessa stands straight, giving the kind of dutiful “Yes captain!” that the competent character in her story would give before leaving the room.

The captain walks up to you.

“So...”

If she loomed over Vanessa, she towers over you. Even with your feet held off the ground, your eyes are level with the base of her neck, brushed by her blond hair. Cold yet amused eyes burn blue as they stare you down, accentuated by the dark lines of still perfect, if heavy, makeup. She wears the long red jacket she left in, white flakes of ash sitting on the shoulders and smelling strongly of wood smoke even through the scarf.

“You know, around a third my crew are dead.”

She casually throws out the shocking number, as though it were nothing. As though it didn’t beed sweat on your forehead. At last estimate, she had between 200 to 300 men on her galleon; that’s around 66 to 99 pirates dead! As good as the news is for the world, it’s not good for you. The two crews must have really hated each other.

You keep your face neutral, hoping to stay on her good side. She speaks again, looking almost disinterested.

“Almost as many again are injured. My only consolation is that my men dealt as much damage as they took. Enough to keep Roland from wiping us off this island.” She pauses again, leaning down to read your expression through inscrutable eyes. “Apparently...You were right in the middle of it when it started. Is that true?” The sweat on your brow is joined by a soaking shiver down your back that has little to do with the close wrapping. Your mouth is dry, planed words dying. The scarf over your lips, you now realise, is of little consequence; the mouse rarely make much headway talking to the cat. You can’t and don’t move your head in anyway, but she reads the truth in your eyes anyway.

“Hum. I see.”

Her face fills your vision, the room fading to darkened irrelevance. You watch the thoughts churn behind her eyes as they mix the means of your departure from this world. A slinking beast that stalks ever closer.

She takes a deep breath and stands up straight, looking down at you once more. Her voice remains light and playful as she speaks your doom.

“Good job.”

You look at her with dread, then…**** puzzlement? There’s no sarcasm in her words, at least that you hear. Is it a joke? She laughs at your expression, holding up hands and lifting fingers with her points.

“A female assassin boards my island, slipping past two crews unnoticed. She then proceeds to burn down half my island and kill a third of my crew. In the process, she insures the end of a business deal I had going and makes an enemy out of my ally.” She looks past her three raised fingers, “Oh don’t worry, Roland set sail an hour ago but I imagine I’ll kill him sooner or later.” She returns to the count, leaning in conspiratorially. “The assassin (and this is the best bit), actually convinces me, if only for a moment, that the Coronac navy is here, despite the fact that I know exactly where they are at all times. If it wasn’t for a single crewman who took the time to go to his captain, I may very well be dead.” She rises her final finger and point. “Oh, and unless I miss my guess, you managed to escape and attack your guard, who’s twice your size, hurting her quite a bit from the looks of it, while unarmed. Points for trying, I’ll give you that.” She pauses for a moment, smiling. Considering. “You’re going to join my crew I think. I need people like you; people who can kill 179 men and women simply by putting themselves in the right place at the right time.” She nods her head. “I think it’ll work out great.”

You look at her, over her scented scarf.

Is she insane!?

First the thought is a wild exclamation, but the more you think of it, the more it becomes a genuine question! You’re actively trying to kill her and she’s trying to recruit you? The look on your face must be quite clear; her smile unfaltering under her raised eyebrows.

“No? I guess I could always throw you out to the creatures of the sea, or have you swinging by the neck from my main sail, or I could have you buggered to **** by my crew and anyone else who wants a go, very easily, but what do I get out of that?” She puts a hand on your immobile shoulder, letting it slide around you and the pole to the other shoulder, as though you two best buddies. You struggle to keep an eye on her. She leans in again, talking in the same slow, clear, and airy tone as before, threats still hanging in the air. “I lost men? Well, I’ve had nothing before, the concept doesn’t frighten me. In the past I didn’t even own my own body. No use getting upset that I’ve lost some men. As a fine woman one told me ‘Getting upset won’t get the dick out of your arse any sooner’,” she leans around letting you see her face, “’but smiling will’.”

She smiles at you, bright red lips curling into a sisterly smile. You wonder how many men have been between those lips. She returns to your side and puts her head next your yours, sweeping a hand as though painting a bright future.

“You’ll get food, water and full pay, minus the cost of the damage you’ve done today until I’m paid back, which should only take a few decades.” She rubs your shoulder. Why would she risk her life? Surely she knows you’ll just kill her at the earliest opportunity. “If you don’t like the sound of that then we could always work out something else. I tell my crew that you are the cause of their friend’s deaths and they take what pleasure they can from you before your croak, probably after as well. They’ll feel better breaking you at least.” She leans forward and looks into your eyes a moment longer before reclaiming her scarf and freeing your mouth.

“So...what do you say?”

There isn’t much you can say. Get **** to **** or join your enemy. She’s bound to have something up her sleeve but you simply don’t have a choice. Not trusting your voice, you look her in the eyes and nod your head. She smiles back, a little more predatory,

“I think this will be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

---

---

You were taken before what’s left of the crew, along with some other men from the merchant’s ships and dockworkers who all sought less honest lives, and was introduced by name as a new hire. The first day saw you swabbing decks under Maxwell’s direct supervision. People thought it was strange that the captains second in command spent his day watching a swabbie, wondering if the old man was sweet on you. It was more understandable when night came and you were summoned to the captain’s quarters.

You spent your first night aboard naked and shackled to the captains bed. Nothing happened, just the captain sleeping naked beside you, silently and effortlessly mocking your desire to kill her. As she snored beside you, you thought it extremely strange, but were still grateful for the gesture; the men on board -your fellow crewmembers all- had been watching you through the day with hungry eyes. The ship had more than enough bunks and hammocks below now that many of the crew weren’t returning to fill them, but being the new girl on board around those that were left would not have been so restful. As it was, you were tired form your very long day and went to sleep easily.

The next day was spent learning how to haul rope with Vanessa. The strong woman held no grudges from your failed attempt to kill her, gladly chatting about the crew and how to survive as a woman at sea. She became your first friend on the ship, bound together by knowledge; she could tell the crew of your part in the flaming riot, and you could tell the captain that she was rooting around in her draws. Both revelations would make each other’s lives more difficult. A strange foundation for friendship, but there you go. The looks people gave you abated; the new and **** were often comforts to be claimed, and no one wanted to challenge the captain for you. Each accepted their own version of what happened that night in the captain’s cabin, and soon after every night since.

That night you were summoned again and again you spent it with wrists and ankles shackled. You will never forget that night, for so long as you live. Before going to sleep lying next to you, she ran her hands over your body, testing its slight curves, before rubbing her fingers over your womanhood. You asked her what she was doing and she looked into your eyes and said,

“Seeing what kind of person you are.”

You asked her to stop and she simply said “No.”

You remember the heat that built up between your legs, so strange and foreign. You remember the look in her eyes as she slipped her fingers inside you. Remember the rushing clench of heat and pleasure. The way her delicate fingers played you like a musical instrument. The panting you couldn’t stop and the moaning you couldn’t suppress. The tiny pain as you bit your lips and the overwhelming ecstasy of what she drew out of you, crackling through your body like lightning.

You remember her words as you panted up at the low wooden ceiling, whispered into your ear like spilling honey.

“Now I know something about you that you’re still working out.”

You remember her passionate kiss, her tongue probing yours. You remember kissing back. It was a long time before you learned what she learned. But you worked it out.

The next day you worked with Vanessa again and the next night you slept with the captain, as unmolested as the first night. She smiled in her sleep, as if sensing the small part in the back of your mind that was disappointed. The weeks went by without incident, with the exception of being assigned to Sharpe. The one eyed woman had somehow survived her backstab and ****, and she was eager the others in the crew not know about it. Even with secrecy in mind, the hostility that radiated off her kept you wary and working extra hard. It eventually came to a head when she pined you against a wall and assured you that she could get half the crew to drag you down to the lower level and ‘take turns straightening out that muff munching arse of yours’ if her secret got out. Assured that it wouldn’t, she started leaving you alone.

You were shacked for the first land raid, hearing only faint screams on the wind. When it was over, you were shown a map and talked through what the navy’s counter attack would be. She asked you opinion as another test of loyalty and seeing that the answer was obvious anyway, you gave your truthful assessment. You won the encounter. She used her mouth that night. An artist at work. It was over in minutes, both in the battle and between your legs. She assured you that your plan was brilliant, that neither she nor Maxwell had thought of it. You thought she was lying at the time; a way to pin the lives lost on your conscience.

It wasn’t all fun. She destroyed your reputation; bringing you before the survivors of various raids and introducing you. She made you kill more than once. She usually did this by threatening to kill the whole lot if you didn’t. You soon became a known pirate and found your fate tied ever closer to your captains. With each kill, your reputation grew, and as your reputation grew, the ability to kill the woman diminished. You don’t know why you didn’t just jump overboard. There was always a reason. Always an excuse. Rumours of your tactical skill spread, aided by the captains insistence that the crew spread them. You helped them plan for battles, first to survive, later to win.

Months passed and you became lovers in earnest. Through some skill or sorcery, she stoked a fire in your heart as deftly as your loins, and yes, you fell for her quite thoroughly. She wasn’t all bad, once you got to know her, after all. The captain still took others to her bed, nearly all of them men, and sometimes you could still taste them when you played that game, but you didn’t mind. You **** yourself not to mind. Told yourself that what you and her shared was special, while what she and the others shared was tactical, just business. She only slept with them to get what she wanted.

Now, it’s been over a year and a half since your capture. True to her word, you still aren’t being paid. Fortunately, every other night you are richer than you ever thought possible. You stand on the bridge, spyglass in hand. All 44 ships of the armada are here, though only a small fraction of them visible. The bulk of the Coronac Navy stands before you. You plan will work. A nation of the sea to be founded.

A small spark of light burns in the back of your mind, telling you that this is wrong, begging for the lives of those you once called allies. You look to the woman beside you and she smiles at you. The flickering flame in your mind is drowned out by the roaring fire in your heart. Today we will win. Tonight we will celebrate. This truly was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.