…follow him and see where he goes.

You made a fairly convincing entrance, thinking back on it. In his position, you’d think there were intruders as well, and you’d know where to go with that information. You move out of the stairs and towards the light of the door, spilling it upon yourself and the room as you open it and pass through into a well-lit corridor. There’s no one here. You listen for the footsteps that hounded you so, from the roof to the ground, and find they’re some distance away, around the nearby corner and getting fainter. You give chase, approaching the corner with silent caution, lightly crossing carpet and looking up and down the new hallway. Empty again, but only just; a door swings closed at the far end, back and forth on its hinges before stilling. Lacking any handle or latch, it’s the kind of swing door they have in tavern kitchens that let their staff to pass through with hands full. The brief and disheartening notion of people being so rich that they need such things in their own home is quickly tempered; if you pull your mission off, you’ll be that rich as well.

As it is now, with your target still alive, you feel terribly exposed. You’re dressed all in black and look decidedly out of place in the lights of the hallway. Corners seem to be everywhere as corridors end and split into more corridors. Doors line the halls to unknown rooms, all promising a chance encounter with bands of roving rapacious murderers. You swallow your fear and cop a feel of the stiletto strapped to your thigh for comfort. Should you draw it? It’s not like you can look any more suspicious. No. You take a breath and move towards the door, stopping and listening at its quiet surface, peeking in, then pouring yourself through the gap and into the empty room beyond.

It’s a kitchen, clearly; a couple of large tables dominate its centre, as well as sinks and cupboards and even an indoor water pump, all lit by a handful of scattered lanterns. It looks barren and unused, though not terribly unclean; the grand oven is bare of ash or scorch marks and the surfaces are bare of crumbs or stains. The days where legions of servants bustled through seem long gone, and the only life that remains are the few flickering lanterns that seem unsuited to the large space. Several doors lead off from the room, but only the door ahead has the sound of receding footsteps beyond. You pass through the open space at a crouch, watching all directions in case anyone craving a late night snack were to come through, and it’s then you notice the familiar moonlight reflecting off the tiled floor within a small side room, separated only by a wide open arch. It leads outside, and is no doubt the back door you saw previously in your woodland excursion. You can’t see the guard, but you know he’s there, and his unseen presence makes you crouch further, until you’re below the height of the table between you and him. In addition, there looks to be a hole in the wall beside the door you entered in from; perfectly square and containing a tray suspended on rope. The odd contraption seems to go upstairs, allowing the food from the kitchen to ascend as quickly as possible. Is it to make things easier for the servants? Why not just have them go up the stairs? Or better yet, the houses owner come down and fetch the food himself? The thinking behind the minds of the rich has always been odd to you. Perhaps you’ll understand when you’re done.

Putting thoughts of success out of your mind, at least until they are appropriate, you reach the other door. A repeat of listening and peeking through reveals your quarry, walking unhurriedly forwards.

“Hey!” His pace becomes a jog, but not at you (though you wish you could tell that to your pounding heart). Instead he seems to catch up someone else at the end of the corridor and disappears around its corner. The sound of talking, too slight to hear from such a distance, drifts over to you as an indistinct buzz, and you really wish you could hear it; he could be talking about your intrusion, or asking where the captain is, and as that is why you followed him in the first place, it feels very galling to be denied by distance. He’s just out of sight around the corner far ahead, but before that corner, there’s another corridor that splits off to the right. Doors line the hall as before, and no one else seems to be about. You move forward, straining your ears as you close the distance.

“-for a drink. This place is falling apart. What about you two?” Two? The guard from the roof, talking with two others? The question was asked by a man, but it seemed youthful in tone. From what you saw of the guard you’ve been following, it only half matches; it sounds clipped with the dregs of a fading accent that matches the strangeness of his clothes, but it also sounds a little more friendly and off guard than you were expecting. He doesn’t sound like he was just chasing an assassin. Each quiet step you take forward gives you more details.

“Guess.” The response comes from another man, sounding confident, as though the word came from a sardonic smile. Your quarry sounds almost embarrassed in response.

“Er, oh, right.”

A woman’s voice sounds next, clearly the second of these two new late night wanderers, chiming with teasing joy.

“Ha! Really? You’re so innocent!” She also has an accent, but it’s his opposite; north to the roof guards lingering south.

None of them had moved from their place, just out of sight around the corner ahead. You come to the hallways right hand offshoot that you hope will shelter you and look down its length. It’s emptier, shorter, and darker than the main hallway the guard walked down, containing only a single door at the end, which shines with light through its cracks. Voices can be heard beyond it, promising occupants that could step through at any moment. There are other doors in the main corridor, across from your **** path, and they look unoccupied thanks to the lack of any similar light behind them. It’s clear that you’d be far safer waiting in one of them while listening to the conversation, and after checking that those ahead are still around the far corner, you take the single step to one of the nearby doors.

The confident man counters the womans laughter with comforting words.

“Nah, my man here’s a beast with the lady’s, right Narn?”

You quietly open the door before you as a jovial manly laugh echoes down the hall and the solid impact of a palm thumping on a chest sounds up ahead. Before you step through, the roof guard staggers back, shoved by the man he was talking too in a friendly gesture of camaraderie. A single step. It’s all it takes to get his smiling form back into your sights. A single glance to the side. All it takes for his smile crinkled eyes to glide right over you.

You move through the door without reserve, into the dark room beyond and closing it behind you, hoping against hope that he mistook your black clad form for a passing shadow. You briefly look at your new surroundings. The room is huge, or at least huge to you, but the only indication of it you see are the many distant windows lining the far wall, tall and grand and showing fields of stairs beyond. They seem cut out of the rooms blackness, yet half shadowed themselves. The overgrown bushes outside reaching up to half their height, smothering the view and leaving what little stars remain too diminished for suitable illumination. You move forward, carefully, blindly, groping your way through the room.

Footsteps sound behind. Footsteps you’ve heard before.

You draw your blade without thought, leaving you with only one hand to probe ahead. Following the left wall takes you to a wide table; one that lets you know it’s presence with a jab to the hip. You feel below, hoping to hide beneath, only for the table to become a wide squat dresser of some kind. You continue on, too quick for caution, hitting a wall that marks the dresser as occupying a corner of the room.

The door opens.

Sudden light blooms, and though you’ve only been in the room for a matter of seconds, it seems like the rays of a new sun. The room, now mostly revealed, is actually dominated by a ridiculously long table with many chairs beneath it. What’s more, the wall you’re following, which turned towards the windows at the corner dresser, turns again soon after, zig-zaging out at random lengths as the room grows steadily larger, expanding towards the far windows. You slip past the first corner, and peek back around. Two doors are open, the one you entered by and another a little further along, the room apparently too large to be satisfied with a single way in. The people at them seem to be looking in, piercing the darkness with pilfered wall lanterns in hand. They aren’t looking at you, yet; the dark clothes you wear serve you well in such shadows, and they have not stepped in far enough to banish them. The two newcomers begin to make their way around the far side of the room, while the roof guard makes his way around the other side. Your side.

You duck back around the corner, gripping your blade tight in your hand. His lantern light flickers on the end of the next corner you were to pass, lighting up any chance of moving round it. Your triangle of shadow diminishes with each step forward he takes and there is nowhere within to hide. He’s going to find you; so long as he walks forward, it’s inevitable. The other man, the one searching the far side of the room with the woman at his back, shouts over.

“You sure?”

It’s with a sweat inducing closeness that the roof guard responds.

“Positive.”

Discovery is a moment away, and so the time to run approaches. Your heart hammers at the thought, but doesn’t deny its truth. Where too? You can’t silence all three, and you can’t rush for Captain Washkin, even if you knew where she is. It’s time to flee. Gold suddenly seems so trivial next to your life. The kitchens back door then? What about the guard? Perhaps you could you shatter one of these windows and jump through, preferably without lacerating yourself? No easy answers come and your mind blanks because of it. What to do now? A hatefully familiar step squeaks a floor board next to you. He’s at your corner. An arm’s reach away.

No matter how you cut it, the exit is through him, your pursuer. Blade in hand and ready to run, you cross the lip of the corner first and face the man who ruined everything, throwing out a reckless lunge at the human shape at hand. The purpose is not to kill, but to escape; you aim for his centre mass and flick your eyes to the open doors. The corridor outside is duller now, lacking two of its lanterns, but-

The knife deflects off steel. No, your wrist does! The stiletto blade is no longer in your hands at all! Instead another hand grips your wrist and twists it, pulling you forward. Something slams into your throat, robbing you of your shocked gasp, before the arm gripping you twists again. You glimpse a calm face, young and hard, its expression marred by the barest hint of sorrowful shock. The man, with his strange bare chest and sleeved arms, looks at you with an expression you might wear when a sunny day turns to rain, or a friend picks up a bad habit. The light fades and falls. The world turns sideways. Everything goes black.

‘Upper belly and throat. Your opponent needs to breath. Deny him breath and the fight is yours.’

The words came after the action, echoing in Narnen’s mind as his well-drilled muscles did what they had been taught so long ago. It always felt strange when that happened; like the hot wind of the south should be upon him. To act without thought; Uman-thuk would have been proud. ‘A winner doesn’t think- he does.’ Only one school of combat focused purely on acting over thinking, and it was one often beaten by the others, but to the unprepared it was like a bolt of lightning, both offensively and defensively. The figure, no more than a black clad blur, went wide eyed: its throat was worthless now. Crushed. It would **** and die as it gargled for breath. Don’t think. Narnen found that when he didn’t think, he tended to be kind. He didn’t see that as shameful, unlike his teacher, reasoning that everyone deserves some measure of mercy. His arms moved again, pulling low, and the figures head bounced off the room’s hard table. Whoever he is, he can die in his sleep now.

Light caught up to his action. Sound next as the lantern he dropped finally hit the floor, followed shortly by the silver blade the stranger wielded. The stranger himself fell next, slumping to the wooden boards below with a limp thud. Finally, the last thing to return was thought. He had seen a figure in black slip into this room. He had then been attacked by that figure and killed them. He’d...it was hard for him to remember, like a dream, but he’d... he’d dropped the lantern he was holding, deflected a dagger thrust with a wrist strike, then gripped and twisted the wrist to disarm. He’d then pulled the attacker into a throat strike, crushing his windpipe, before he wrenched down on the attackers wrist, slamming their head into the table nearby to knock them out. Once again, without even meaning too, he’d been reviewing the fight as he’d been taught. He could almost hear his old masters noncommittal grunt of satisfaction.

The lantern at his feet had somehow stayed lit, despite its sudden impact with the floor. It now illuminated the slumped attacker like a pile of black rags. If he survived the blow to the head then no air would come to him. He’s either dead, or was about to be. For some reason, he looked so small.

Sam trotted over, with Misty a short step behind. Narnen forestalled the question, answering it directly.

“He’s dead.” That sounded cold, he knew; it was always hard to get out of that thoughtless space. The fact that he never really got on well with others didn’t help; other people always seemed to know what they were about compared to Narnen; they always seemed to know what to say.

“Man, I wish you’d teach me some of that southern fighting stuff with the hands; pow, pow, pow.”

Sam threw some punches to the air, followed by a brawlers ducking and weaving that would be laughed out of any of the combat schools. Narnen liked Sam, despite himself, even though they had only known each other for a few months. He tried to be friendly, even when Narnen was awkward or fucked up at something. He’d also dragged Narnen to a whore house when he found out he had a hard time talking with women. It had been a fairly miserable experience, but the effort was there.

Misty held her lantern high, looking over the dying body with unladylike ease before finally speaking.

“Who is she?”

It was a question that briefly confused Narnen, but looking down, she was right; the attacker was a woman. That explained her size. A thought suddenly worked its way through his slowed brain.

“We should let the captain know. There could be more of them.” If there were then the island would have to go on alert. A search would be needed. It was Sam that answered, looking down at their fallen guest with concentration.

“No... I mean, sure. Let the captain know… I just mean I know her type.” He nodded his head at the woman, lying face down. “I doubt there will be more around.”

How did he work that out? Narnen couldn’t figure it, and before he could ask, Misty beat him to it with her own question, both innocent and dangerous in tone.

“What do you mean her type?”

Curious, Narnen lent down and turned the body over, laying it on its back. Sam was quite smart, despite how he acted; if he said this intruder was acting alone then Narnen was inclined to agree. But how did he know? He gave Sam a curious look, but his response was directed at Misty.

“I’m just saying... well, she ran to hide, not for help.” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking uncharacteristically nervous. “Look, we shouldn’t even be here, or at least I shouldn’t. If the captain catches me shirkin then I’ll be asking her-” he gestured at the corpse “-who she is in person, you know what I’m saying?”

He was right, come to think of it; Sam wasn’t supposed to be here. He’d been assigned dock work, if Narnen remembered correctly. Coming up to the big house and sneaking in to distract the maids was the opposite of what he should be doing. The captain wouldn’t kill him per se, but Narnen understood; you don’t want to get on the captains bad side.

He threw his friend a grunt of assent, just to let him know he agreed, before turning to the woman strewn on the floor. She had her black hair tied up in a bun at the back of her head, which left her pale forehead free and bright thanks to the black mask only reaching bridge of her nose and the light catching on the slight sheen of sweat that beads upon it. Her eyes were closed, looking peaceful.

Misty responded to her nervous man with a playful tone. “So does that mean you’re going then?”

Narnen was bad at handling women, especially when they were being playful or provocative, and Misty was both of those things almost all the time. He never got on with her as a result, choosing to avoid her when possible. It was that kind of confidence that often robbed him of his own. Sam had no such limitations.

“Well...I mean... you know I never said that.” He licked his lips “We should get a move on though.” She simply smiled by way of a response. He knew what Sam saw in her -she was an undeniable beauty, even with the northern eyes- but he’d be a fool not to see how dangerous she was as well. Her smile deepened when Sam oh-so-covertly grabbed a handful of her rear. Maybe he liked the danger.

“So... I guess I’ll leave this to you?”

Narnen gave a **** nod to his friend’s request, sensing his eagerness to leave. He had to follow it up with a “Yeah, ok” when he realised his friend was a little too distracted by the contents of Misty’s short skirt to have noticed his response. The words seemed to snap him back to reality.

“Just give me like...5-“ he glanced at Misty, who subtly raised her eyebrows “no 10 minutes before you raise a ruckus. I’ll let you beat me at cards again?” Which Narnen knew meant ‘I’ll play you at cards again’. Half the crew already seemed to owe him money from cards, and the other half had sworn off playing with him anymore. It wasn’t his fault the gods favoured him.

“You better bet big.” It was all he could think to say, but it seemed to satisfy, earning a thankful nod from Sam before he steered Misty’s rump toward the door. Watching them walk away, it was clear Sam’s hand had found its way under the skirt. He looked back with a wink, lifting it enough to let Narnen briefly peek at the bare buttocks beneath. His friend was going to fuck tonight, and he’d left Narnen cleaning up a corpse to do it.

As the door clicked shut, he looking back at the corpse in question -his only companionship for the ten minutes he’d promised- he began the task of searching it for valuables. The dagger, which was partially painted black, was in the stiletto style and looked to be worth a pretty penny. What’s more, it looked useful to keep as a boot knife. The body was unlikely to be carrying anything valuable beyond that, but idling away didn’t suit him. Bringing the lantern close, he tugged the black facemask down, to get a look at his would be killer. It slipped past her nose and mouth to rest over her ruined neck like a funeral shroud. No breath came, except from Narnen.

She was beautiful; small and delicate as a flower. A small chin and jaw, and small ears buried by tied back hair, paired with her wide eyes -large, even when closed- to give her the impression of youth enduring into womanhood. She looked...innocent. Narnen was no child lover, but he was drawn to virgins. They lacked confidence, which often seemed to give some to him. Whores were just meat, and the girls taken in raids were no better; if he couldn’t be first then he’d choose to be last, when the damage was done and they were alone. Both types of women were better than his own hand after all.

This woman though, with her black clothes and pale skin, her fine cheekbones and petite frame, looked like a sheltered virgin. She had a vulnerability to her; enflamed by raised eyebrows over closed eyes, and a mouth with slightly parted pink lips, all lending to an expression of worried surprise. Her body was like the form of some sleeping woodland animal, thin and spindly, like a deer; some kind of pray, fearing the hunter and sleeping dreams strained by troubles. A moment of sorrow crept up on him. While the woman had no doubt been trying to kill him, he still wished she wasn’t dead; perhaps they could have gotten along. The lantern light flickered over her body, letting his minds eye see her chest rise and fall. It was a hot summer’s night, and sweat prickled his forehead as surely as it still prickled hers. The doors were closed, and hidden around the shadowed corner; their last and long gone passengers probably up against a wall somewhere, moaning and humping. The image of Misty’s departing jiggle still lingered in his mind, but it was the thought of this chaste little thing lying at his knees that gave his passion cause to rise against his baggy Harem trousers.

He began his search, carefully, meticulously, and professionally, patting down her body for anything on her person. When he reached her small breasts, he hesitated: it didn’t seem right to...**** the dead, but some women did keep things tucked into there, he reasoned. That such women only did so when they had the flesh to accommodate did not stop the sensation of her small flattened breasts from filling his hands. She was soft, and hard, the bust of her chest delicate and slight, with a firmness to them that could be felt when squeezed, but they stood atop ribs that his questing hands could feel as they strummed up and down before gripping and palming what he could. Seconds passed, mile-marked by his tongues repeated flicks over dry lips. He was transfixed in a way that could not be satisfied by the feel of cloth. The top was pulled up, along with her arms as the material joined the lowered mask at her neck, piled more to shield him from the reality of the wound he caused than to show more of her creamy skin, though the sight was appreciated.

Her stomach was trim and slight, and the moment it gave way to ribs was clear to see. Upon those, in a brief break from the bones beneath, were soft piles pulled flat against her, yet still holding their proud firmness and pink peeks. His hands were upon them, and soon his lips, tasting the sweat that had not been wiped clean by her black top. A hard suck made her eyebrows twitch and Narnen was stopped with shock. He watched her, revelling in her clear beauty, made more so by her rampant femininity being on display. Watched for any flickering signs of a life he knew could not be there. His hands were still, yet as full as he could get them; paused over a platter that did not rise or fall. The lantern flickered onward, highlighting to him what he was doing to the woman he killed. He had little dealings with the gods or their laws, but such vile actions still left him bitter. Yet...the haunting creature before him had her lush unpainted lips parted so, inviting him forward, and he ached so for their touch. Kisses were hard for him; a performance he never felt skilled at; a dance that required control and understanding from both parties. A connection. A negotiation.

They were still warm.

Her lips accepted him gladly, surrendered lovingly, and soon a tilt of her head let his tongue spill against hers voraciously, displaying a passion he’d never shown any living person. It was an intimate kiss, with the perfect woman for him. Sometimes it was slow and deep, others it was fast and fiery, but always it was as he wanted it to be, and never did the woman below voice complaint or question. Never before had he felt such an unbridled, blinding passion. It caste aside any doubts, banished the concept of depravity, slew hesitation in favour of her softness, her sweet smell, her taste, leaving a world occupied by him and his silent lover. It saw him move between her legs, to lower the black trousers to her ankles in several short tugs. He lifted her legs and spread apart her knees, pausing to give the perfect sight above them the consideration it deserved.

Her legs were thin, like the rest of her; looking weak and flighty and pale. A band of black leather wrapped her thigh; looped for her fallen weapon and acting as a black garter, highlighting her form like the ribbon of a gift. Her hips were narrow, but their contents was unmistakably feminine. It was tidy, with a small mound and a seam down the middle that was barely covered by a slim growth of wiry black hair. His palms exposed its jewel, spreading and revealing its **** pink folds, its colours stark against the monochrome contrast of her skin and hairs.

In a second, he was on her, and in her; mouth and hips both; drilling away with his very soul. There was no gentleness to his attentions; were she alive she would no doubt complain as such rough treatment, even scream when he did not stop; for he could not stop. He couldn’t keep from her; not with the feeling of her on his loins and in the fire of his passion. She was gripping him with tightness, shuddering with his impacts. Her breasts, mere nipples unattended, rocked back and forth, begging for the hands he happily provided. He could be himself when he was insider her; no hiding, no fake smiles or awkward interaction, just purely himself. He was a man, a beast, but she accepted him for it, with blissful silent consent.

She felt hot on him; the friction of their union making a bonfire of her passage. Her legs fell; bent knees shaken straight, yet still wide for him. The feel of her lips were that of bliss, and he found himself kissing her more than anything else, probing with his tongue and drooling his lust into her without thought. When their teeth clicked with unwanted impact, he could simply open her mouth more and when her tongue lolled he could dance with it. Sweat rolled off him and onto her, into her, yet ever since her arms were raised, her sweet sent had not diminished. It was a pheromone, an aphrodisiac: the essence of the beauty who stole onto this island to be with him. It caught in his mind, driving him wild. She grew wet, with his ready passion if not her own, and things became easier. The noise of a filthy wet pounding soon filling the room, side by side with the moans he could not keep from his lips.

The union was done in short order, such was its incomparable nature. It ended the only way he could allow: with hips stilling and seed flowing, freely planting crops on a land that would never bear fruit. He shook with pants, as if to mock the unbreathing form below, stroking her, feeling her. Her hair smelt amazing. It was all he could think of, still hilted within her. He began to roll free of her, but his hands moved on their own, holding her at the hips and rolling her upon him. Her head lay on his chest, her eternal sleep undisturbed, and her knees fell to the sides of his own (with a little encouragement) as her body straddled him. Her arms fell about the sides of his shoulders and head, as though she were as exhausted as he was and wished to hold him as much as he did her. In that moment, spent as he was, he expected his passion to fade and his self-disgust to return with a vengeance, but he was surprised by how the sight pleased him. Who was she, this woman dressed in black who had come here? What was her story? His mind filled with his own answers; tales of a flighty maiden thief who’d sought true love, or a girl avenging her father who’d found peace in the arms of a pirate. His hands filled with her small yet infinitely soft rump, squeezing and spreading, and his rod filled again with blood and passion, still speared within her. Did a virgin still bleed when her heart had stopped beating? He did not know, but it explained the lack of red on him. She was so soft, and her behind filled his fingers perfectly as they reached across her hips and cheeks. She was small enough for his fingertips to reach her middle; stretching open her unspoiled territory.

This would never work, and he knew it; she may be in the saddle, but she would never ride. Besides, his fingers had stumbled upon, and then wormed their way inside of, a good idea. It was an idea he intended to capitalise upon while reason and decency were kept at bay by monstrous passions. Something he wanted to do before sanity returned.

He could see her throat move; it’s broken flattened cartilage lifting with life as the damage was undone. He couldn’t reach it all. She lay on the table now, on her back, with her head tilted over the edge. With his balls upon her dainty nose and her perfect parted lips to his base, he could only go so far. His lover didn’t seem to mind. In short order, she began to milk him again, unresisting and accepting, for a third and final time.

In the end, Sam had been given more than ten times the promised ten minutes, and that time wore heavily upon Narnen as he pulled out of his lover. Post release clarity had begun to wash in for him after the second time and her body, while still beautiful, had begun to lose its charm. Discounting the fact that she was dead, he’d been drawn to her innocent girlish appearance, and with her nakedness and her head hanging off the table, her open lips dripping his seed into her upturned nose, it was an innocence long gone. He couldn’t even kiss her now. Even if he wiped away the seed, which he would have to do before presenting her to his captain, her mouth had gained a foul smell by his presence. It was one that no doubt also clung to his rod, as well as being smeared between her cheeks from her time spent face down on the long table.

He was disappointed with himself, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret. What’s done was done, and he’d remember it, good and bad, for the rest of his days. He began to clean her up and cover her again. He’d take her to his captain; a meeting Narnen had no doubt the girl was better being dead for.