…poison the mug and wait for the show.

It seems a shame to have brought such powerful poison all this way and not use it. Your hand slips into the slit of your trousers faux pocket and removes the small vial of deadly poison. It takes a drop to kill a man. You pour in half of what you have. Truth be told, you don’t know why you don’t pour in the whole thing, save for wastefulness. What’s soon to follow should give little opportunity for further poisonings.

With the clear liquid lost instantly in the muddy wine, you look at the half vial left. Of course! What were you thinking!? There’s more than one way to administer a poison after all. You draw your blade and let several drop run down its length, letting them patter from its point into the empty tankard. ‘Just in case’ you think, picturing its owner refilling the mug and toasting with its compatriot in an almost naively ideal scenario. You can only hope.

You dart back to the wardrobe and clamber inside, careful of you stiletto as you hide between the curtains of two relatively plain dresses. You’d be obvious should the door be opened, but also unimpeded for your eventual exposure. Besides, you’ll be the one to open these doors, and you position your footing for the spring attack as you gently close the doors behind you.

When you do, and the predicted darkness swallows the sight of fine fabric, you notice the remains of light floating before you. It comes from two spots; the keyhole of a long since missing lock carved in the wood ahead, and a line to your left, marking the edge of the door. There is no twin to its right, perhaps because the wardrobe is near enough to the wall that way that light does not shine through. You take advantage of the empty room and lean about, testing both gaps for what you can see. The left gap see’s past the line of adjacent cupboards, to the bed, while the keyhole sees straight ahead, to the table and its fiendish contents. A perfect view.

You put the empty vial down on soft satin, and soon minutes begin to pass, though you don’t know how many. You do know that it’s probably not as many as it feels. The room becomes the proverbial watched pot that never boils, mocking your haste and springing steps. You could have poisoned the mugs a dozen times before you hear even the slightest disturbance; a conversation, muffled through multiple doors as it approaches. Did it feel slow? You meant fast; much too fast. Suddenly they are back, and the blade feels loose in your sweaty hands. Deep breaths. You can do it.

“I’m telling you, you can’t do it. It just can’t be done.” The outer door opens to Captain Roland’s negative tone.

“Again?” Captain Washkin sounds exasperated; lamenting loudly at her confidant’s lack of wit. Evidently, the mood between the two had not improved much in the intervening minutes.

You hear the sound of paper fluttering before it smats hard upon a flat surface, and the Captain speaks with deliberate slowness, punctuating her words with the tapping of fingers.

“The currents turn here,” *tap* “and here are the rocks.” *tap* “If the convoy is here” *tap* “then they will have to go here.” *tap*

“But the navy will be in a line escort, so they will get through! And I don’t see any rocks on this map.”

The taps come in rapid succession, like the beating of a fly’s wings. *taptaptaptaptap* “See? Right there!” The taping stops, the hand in question no doubt thrown up in exasperation. “Damn it Roland, it’s clear as day!”

“Bah! Fine! But I’m right about the navy!”

Roland’s words come starkly clear when the inner door opens midsentence, sending a jolt of panic through you. Only the thin door of the wardrobe lies between you and a fight to the ****. You ready the blade point first and try to peer through the broken keyhole.

You see a shadow at the door; tall and blurred by the bad angle. The shapes feminine voice, still loud and dripping with frustration, confirms its character.

“No you’re not, because...”

A heavy sigh sounds and she closes the door, keeping her and Roland on the other side and delaying the moment you all collide. What’s spoken next is hard to hear as Captain Washkin switches to a lighter tone, letting her words stretch to emphasise their obviousness and her own exasperations.

“They won’t _beeeee _a problem.”

“Fifteen ships at once?”

Another sigh, slight and calculated, saying without words a resounding ‘like I already said...’

“Seven ships. Four captains can be paid to run, three are captained by known cowards who will flee when the others do and one of them will mutiny, effectively removing it from the fight. Two of the remaining seven are transport ships, armed only for small raiders.”

Captain Roland switches form, moving from disbelieve to acceptance so fast that you’d be sure he had always been on board, if not that this was all his idea in the first place.

“I’m not saying that we can’t take them but why attack with only three ships?”

Captain Washkin, for her parts, accepts the sudden shameless shift without comment, simply glad of its occurrence.

“The others need to stay in reserve to funnel the fleeing merchant ships through the pass...here.”

Another tap on the map. Roland doesn’t question it this time.

“What’s her worth?”

“I have the last manifest to give you an idea,” draws start to open, and papers shuffle as things are moves about. “It must be in my room”

The door opens again, with both entering, and you feel the clatter of boots head in your direction! There are no plans in here! Just clothes! You want to tell her, but it would be a little self-defeating. You ready your blade, preparing for the spring attack. Perhaps you could kill her, grab the necklace, and run for the window before the other one has a chance to react? Unlikely!

The cabinet with many draws that acts as your neighbour is opened, each draw pulled one after another, until the sound of papers being fingered rings out.

“I know I have it here somewhere...” Another draw, then another, this time closer to you. “Here!” She turns and offers the paper to Roland. “Look at this cargo manifest, its last months. Since it was successful, other merchants are adding to the pot, so it will be much bigger next time.”

You hear him take the papers and picture him looking them over. With you blade bared and ready, you don’t want to risk leaning forward to look close through the keyhole, but the wardrobe door still has its crack where it’s fitted to the frame. The shape of the captain shifts and you tilt your head for a better look.

“Gods!”

The blond sliver of the captain you can see shifts with satisfaction before she talks again, commanding voice sounding ludicrously close and calm considering the dagger shaking in your hands. If the door were not there, you could tap her on the shoulder.

“I also have reliable sources that tell me the Grand Princes favoured niece will be finishing her Coronac visit at that time, so odds are good she will be on that ship as well. The ransom alone could match everything else on board!”

You’d been skipping over the plan being discussed until now, considering it will either never happen or you will never see it, but mention of the infamous Lady Preda Pravean peeks your interest. The celebrity brat visiting town after town with her vast retinue to see the new world is often a topic of conversation. Nobody seems to know why she is there, or what she is about, and her reception has been mixed to say the least.

An impressed whistle comes from the man.

“So it’s well worth it,” he concedes. “We take out five ships with our three and someone else intercepts the cargo ships?”

She takes the manifest and returns it to her draw, giving you a thin view of her face. It happens too fast for you to see her properly, but one impression comes through, turned as she is from the man behind her. Contempt.

A breath through the nose, and the act of an excited encouraging voice continues. “No. Here I’ll show you.”

They leave the room again, snubbing your readiness to once more look at the map, and you roll your eyes silently. Just drink the poison already! All this talk must be leaving them thirsty!

“My ships will be here, here and here. When the others have fled, they sail around to these three locations, blocking all escape but here.”

“That’s the perfect escape! They’ll get away!”

“No because they will go right over the shallows, grounding them. That’s the trick. I don’t know how it works, it’s some trick of the light, but I’ve seen it myself. The water looks deep and safe but no ship can sail it safely.”

Come on; drink drink, **** ****, dead dead; it’s not that hard. If you remain on the edge any longer, you may just go insane.

“Then that means we can’t get to them!”

“We can in rowboats. Overwhelming ****, kill the crew, do some back and forth trips to our ships for the loot. This is what we need your experienced boarders and breakers for; to lead the attack. The cargo ships can’t move but turn into sea fortress. No tactics possible, just overwhelming ****.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “That is what you do best, right?”

The tone in her voice had changed at some point, shifting from frustrated to excided, and now to sultry as the situation needed. You’ve seen merchants act the same as they go from shouted assurances to quite convincing and finally to a friendly good natured close as the money exchanges hands. No doubt those steps are slightly different for a prostitute, ex though she might be, but you sense the same cinching of the deal.

Roland, for his part, sounds convinced, though that only leads to negotiation. “I can see why you need me an mine,” he muses before changing to a more predatory tack, “but I could use some convincing.”

“Like last time?”

You can hear that she’s all smiles as she talks, but that ends as she takes a deep breath, humming a pleased moan through wet sounds.

Is she…being kissed? No no no, that’s not what they need to do! Why not share a drink first!? You feel your frustration welling, and resist the need to tap the flat of your blade on your cramping knees.

They walk back into the room, and once more you consider lowering your knife to look through the keyhole. In the dark as you are, you really don’t want to scratch yourself with it, and lowering it into the folds of the dress you’re on could wipe it free of poison. In the end, you settle on listening, and hear a small crack and whoop from Captain Washkin before you see her in the side crack, chased a few steps forward before turning to the man lagging behind. Something makes a noise against wood. Something that rings with the sound of hollow pewter.

Was that what you think it was?

Captain Washkin takes a step to him, gently grabbing his collar and pulling him forward towards the bed and into the sight of the hinge side space. “You just lie down and I’ll show you why I’m right.” He follows, greedily, then hesitantly, and when she makes to push him to the bed, he braces himself on one of the bedposts, pushing her to the bed instead.

She bounces slightly on the expensive mattress, cautioned further by her no doubt expensive behind, and she scoots back across the sheets, spreading her still trousered legs invitingly.

“Mmmm, this is always the best bit of our little talks.” She pauses, face turning from lust to confusion. “Roland?”

He had taken a step back, out of your sight, and now the unmistakable sound of gasping and gagging comes from straight ahead.

“Y-you… you bitch!!”

“Roland!”

She stands, and so do you, stepping out of the closet in a single fluid motion as you’re drawn inexorably to her. She sees you, your eyes meeting over your black mask, and you charge forward towards the bed, blade in hand. She rolls to the side, half sprinting, half falling as she flails herself off the bed and away from you. It’s not fast enough. You’re half way across the room before she even has her feet under her. Is she going for the window? No. She reaches towards something nearer, with a glittering gold handle and a long dark sheath. Her sword.

As soon as you see it, you’re yanked back; your sprint turned into a dead stop. Captain Roland grips you, bug-eyed and red faced, staring through you as a cough sprays bloody spittle across his chin. You grab the hem of your black top and yank it from his grip, sidestepping him as he topples forward, but the momentum is lost, and the captain has her sword. You take several steps, but stop when a flash of metal catches the light. She draws and swings in one wild move, keeping you away more than trying to strike, and as you stop again, her footing improves, each split second diminishing your chances. The uncoordinated swing becomes an aimed point, the tip of her rapier turning as it takes you in. You can’t see an opening. Not good! Captain Washkin is not considered the greatest swordsman, but she is one of the best swords women, certainly on the central sees. You’re just some woman who bought a dagger in a shop; the odds are definitely not in your favour!

She swings what you think is a probing strike; slow and easy, with ample caution. It’s not meant to kill or maim, but you barely turn it away with your stiletto, the thin metal lengths clashing noisily near to your face. Far to near! You take a step back, and she a step forward, confusion and caution on her face. You need to leave, now, and you need to stay calm; this is not a fight that you can win. That was decided the moment she got her sword. Damn that Roland! You don’t take another step back, lest his dying body ruin you further, instead taking a step to the side; if you could turn the room and put the window to your back instead of over her shoulder, you could flee. Perhaps you could throw your blade her way as a parting gift when you do; should the poison edge catch her then you’d need only wait it out.

You try not to let the fear show in your eyes; your shot is lost and everything is on a razor edge honed by uncertainty. Another step to the side. She thrusts and you jump back. She steps forward, more confident.

Her stance is wide, with her legs parted as her body faces you side on. Her sword is the only part of her you can reach, and unfortunately, it’s far more likely to reach you first. Despite the elegant utility of her stance, she stalks you like a predator, her makeup shaped face serious and turned low, with blue eagle eyes locked on your every move. The door is at your back now, with the window to your right. If you could just get her to step back, you could run for it. You feint an attack, thrusting forward enough to catch her sword.

It was a mistake.

Like a striking silver eel, the rapier blade counterattacks, flicking your reckless thrust away and sending your stiletto clattering across the floor to your right.

Along with a finger.

The pain is immediate, but your cry is muffled by your mask and the burning need to flee. You jump to the side, rolling across the nearby table and putting it between you and her, turning in time to see her jump up to its surface and begin to pursue. You take several quick steps back, past a cold fire place and towards the beckoning window and its open night air. The Captain, now smiling in a truly terrifying way, steps ever closer, and you find you cannot take your eyes from her. You know that the moment you look away, she will strike, yet that moment cannot be kept at bay for long.

Something catches your foot and spins with a deadly metal sound, like an old friend calling to you, and you reach down with your unspoiled hand for your fallen stiletto as the captain steps down from the table. Cautious of its sharp poison edge, you look down as you grab it, and see the flash of delicate steel rip your black sleeve as it bites into your forearm. You flinch back. There’s blood.

The window is your only hope now, and you jump the remaining distance, crossing the sill at an angle so you can catch it enough to slow your fall. Expecting a quick drop, you instead find a tiled roof hitting your side, and you slide unexpectedly down its short surface feet first before being ejected from its length and falling proper. The ground shudders up your right leg, with your left following late after thanks to the poor angle, the impact sending you rolling in the overgrown grass, and ending on your back. You look up at the bright window and the form of its occupant looking down at you.

You watch her chest swell with breath.

“ASSASSIN! Zap, to the back window!”

Your right leg twinges sharply as you put your feet under you, your heart hammering too much for pain. Even so, some things cannot be ignored, and so your steps limp as you move quickly towards the treeline, hobbling like an invalid. The captain doesn’t pursue you herself, but keeps barking her orders at a well-practiced decibel.

“Rock to me! Narnen to Zap!”

For now, no people come to you across the wide lawn, looking to bar you from the surrounding woods and its dark safe foliage. You limp alone, with a pace pained and slow, but steady, and the inviting embrace of the woods grows as it fills more and more of your vision.

“Captain!?”

Your every nerve fires as you hear the shout, frighteningly close and level with the ground. Looking back, you see him, in white and red colours, wielding a brutal looking bat, looking up at the window.

“There! She’s near the woods!”

He looks and sees you.

The woods finally embrace you, but it’s all for nothing; he sprints your way and closes the distance faster than you could, even before your leg, and all the inscrutable over grown safety is worthless while this man gives chase. If you had your blade then maybe you could change that, but no use wishing for things now! You look about and see an old broken branch, and quickly pick it up to level at the man like a spear. It’s not much, but you limp backwards, hoping to keep him at bay as you escape. Its dry bark crusts to dust under your fingers and the whole thing looks pitiful compared to his solid wooden club. You step backwards. He slows. You look down and see the sight of your hands, covered in blood. There’s so much blood that you can’t see your injures; even the branch you hold quickly reddens, hiding the space where a finger should be.

As the man nears, his serious face softens as the reality of his advantage is made clear.

“Captain fucked you up, eh?” It said while rapidly catching his breath from the brief sprint.

You breathe heavily in response, before ramming the stick forward at his face, looking to take his eye from its socket and flee, but it’s a slow strike make poor by your weakened hands, and he dodges it with ease.

“Easy there sweetheart; you almost got me!”

He grips his club with both hands and swings hard, aiming for your ad-hoc weapon. Sharp pain lances up your grip, and the old branch sails from your hands and clatters against the wizened tree it likely fell from. Even if you could hold on to it, the old wood would no doubt shatter under such a blow, no match for the hardened brutality you put it up against.

“You wanna pick that up?”

You run, and within a few steps, he catches.

His hands grip your top and his weight brings you down like some prey animal, slamming you into the dry dirt of the woods and the innumerable old sticks that crackle like a roaring fire. Both arms are soon snared by his, and bent up your back one after the other. You struggle, of course, but to no avail; the man is taller and wider than you, with a bulk of wiry muscle that you could not match on your best day. Its only when he pushes your arms up towards your neck and breaking that you stop and go limp.

With nothing to tie you, he simply drags you up, holding both arms and guiding you from behind. He kicks his bat the short distance to the tree line as he marches you out, no doubt looking to leave it where he can find it later.

You plod with one limping foot in front of the other, your gripped wrists burning under his touch. The left is in a particular state of agony, where he grips the cut the captain left all the harder for its slippery soak in your spilling blood. You could probably slip free anyway with a sudden jerk, but then what? You can’t run faster than he can and you have no weapons to speak of, not even your poison.

“Captain!”

A familiar head topped with a trestle of long blond hair appears in the window above.

“Good man! Take her to the cells.”

With no other choice, you march at his pace, utterly terrified of whatever fate has in store. He doesn’t slow for your twinging leg, which hurts more and more with each passing second, nor does he offer a treatment for your bleeding arms, save the sure grip he has on them. Instead, you pass through the buildings back door, through a kitchen, and down a corridor, before arriving at his chosen destination. When he opens its latch, he grips both your arms with only one of his in the process, correctly sure that you’re not going anywhere. It leads down the stone steps and into the buildings cellar.

What you see down there is a show in full swing, crowded with guests despite its size. The eight or so people currently occupying it quickly blur as you’re rushed to a cell along the left wall. The door opens and you tumble through, finally free of the man’s grasp the moment the cage door shuts. You don’t get up, opting instead to curl up, gripping your arms to stop the bleeding. Your left forearm is mostly superficial. Your right hand is definitely not.

You hear the man’s explanation without taking it in, and lie whimpering to yourself. Even with these new injures, your old ones don’t go away, and you feel truly beaten, both in body and mission. Damn damn damn damn damn damn damn. You think it to yourself, over and over, cursing your injuries and predicament, but there is no anger accompanying them. Instead, blind panic is all you feel, smothering you like a cold blanket, and running shivers of fear up and down your body. There, you lie still, with silent tears brimming in your unseeing vision, trying to keep your pounding heart from beating you dry.

---

You’re calmer now. Time had passed, along with the tears, and the sight of your surroundings and its occupants had, at some point, become depressingly familiar. The man and woman bent and naked in the stocks (Roden and Tamana respectively) were now untouched, though one of the men (Jorassa, with his long mop of dark hair) had recently had Tamana grunting through her gagging horses bit. Instead, the debauched party had turned its conversation to you, which naturally meant the conversation went around in circles as none of them knew any more than had been explained to them.

You’ve been feigning ignoring them, especially the jibes and questions of the bald one (Nicome, you think). In actuality, their inane chatter is one of the few distractions you have from the burning agony in your hand. You still have a **** grip on your finger, but some of what they say makes you think you’d be better off bleeding out.

The far door opens and footsteps descend the cellar stairs. You can’t see the entry from where you lay, it being hidden behind the forest of bars from the other cells, each crudely mortared into the stone floor and ceiling, but you follow the footsteps until their owner reveals herself. It’s the captain -the one you didn’t kill- with two guards.

She addresses the others in the room first.

“You, you, you, and you: get dressed; I need runners.”

There is a flurry of activity from the gathered crowd, followed by the grinding of boots on the stone floor as she turns on her heels.

“First off, despite the complete mess you’ve made, I’d like to thank you and offer my commiserations.”

You look up at her, starting with her long leather boots, then up her thighs encased in tight white trousers, to her flowing red and gold coat, white trimmed with lavish detail, then her frilly white shirt. Your eyes stop at her neck, seeing that she had taken her necklace out to rest it openly upon her bosom. The Amulet of Abyet, and your downfall; a cutting reminder laid purposefully bare. Your **** yourself to look further, into her eyes, and manage it for a moment; the intensity of her sea blue gaze quickly sends your grey rims running, roving her face instead, and even unlooked at they burn in your memory, mixed with the predators gaze you saw before. Her face itself is framed by a flow of golden blond hair, and her makeup is immaculate, including the plump lips painted a lush red. The idea of her fixing her kiss smeared makeup before the man she kissed was even cold, is both ridiculous and chilling. Those lips twist up at the sides, turning to let you know the insincerity of her words.

“At least you killed Roland before I fucked him; I’d be annoyed if it was after.”

The bald headed man stands up from his chair, still naked. “My captains dead!?”

She gestures to the men behind her, and then at the bald man. “Lock him up.”

They move and quickly grip his arms, with the particularly large guard leaving him looking like a child picked up by an adult. The bald man struggles briefly before giving up, looking pale and queasy and staggering as he’s shoved into the cell one along from you. As the lock clicks and the key is removed, he seems about to beg for his life, but he doesn’t, perhaps not wishing to push his luck. You know the feeling, but feel no sympathy for the man after enduring his words and watching his **** of the stocked woman.

The captain turns to him and smiles in a kind way, though with far less genuine mirth than when she talked to you.

“Relax. You’re not going to be harmed. The **** of your captain was the complete fault of this girl. I’m just taking some precautions to make sure this island doesn’t turn into a bloodbath.” She returns her attention to you. “Of course, as part of that, you’ll have to take the blame publicly. I’m mainly here to tell you that.” She puts a finger to her mouth in thought. “Though, I’d like you to confirm that you’re operating alone.”

A thousand lies line up on your tongue, so much so that you can’t pick between them. Should you say you’re here with friends; that there is an army over the horizon? Perhaps you could tell her you were hired by a member of her crew, or Rolands? Or you could bluff by telling her you’re alone, but making it sound like a lie?

“Nevermind.” You stop at her word, mouth half open to tell your story. She leans forward, arms crossed on the bars and above her head as she bends forward to look down at you. “If you’re going to lie, it means you have nothing, which I already knew. We’re searching the island anyway, but no one is coming for you, and no one will.”

It's said with such certainty, like a profits proclamation, and made far more dooming due to your own silent agreement. Leaning forward as she is, the necklace dangles in the air above an unbuttoned display of generous cleavage, glittering in the dim cellar light. She goes on, “Oh, and while I don’t need to know, you’re an Agent aren’t you?” You flinch as if struck, looking up at her. How did she- “I thought so. Amateur effort: not all Principality Agents are bad assassins, but the bad assassins are all Principality Agents. Nice try though.”

She smiles at you with infuriating smugness, and even scared as you are, you’d rebuke her words with taunts simply to wipe that smile away. You’d rebuke them, if your sad predicament did not give them such weight. As it stands, you weather the **** on your professions efficacy with silent dignity.

She continues to look at you, considering and appraising, but once your worth is decided upon or perhaps she tiers of your silence, she pushes from the bars and strides away, calling back a few words of advice.

“Best get some sleep my dear; it’ll be a big day tomorrow.”

And with that, she leaves you in your cell, taking the distracting group and leaving you with one guard and three fellow prisoners, who all look at you in silence.

Even those bent naked in the stocks look at you with sympathy.

---

---

It was a lovely day. The blue skies were unmarred by clouds and a reliable wind blew across the deck to kiss away the heat and leave a gentle warmth. Unacka watched as familiar gulls circled above and cried out in distant calls, before looking down at the knife in his hands. It was fine work. Not in the way a noble’s dagger would be, but practical and well made. He picked some of the black paint off, which came away grudgingly; it would make a good boot knife, and memento.

His meeting with Captain Wendigo had gone surprisingly well, considering the news she brought. Captain Roland was dead. Naturally, that lead to some tension with the crew, partly for the nature of the news, and partly because it was delivered by her and her fully armed boys, while he and the others were unarmed, unawares, and hungover. When she explained how the captain had been killed by an assassin that was trying to kill her, Unacka had accepted it, because it was exactly what he wanted to hear, and he had helped the others to accept it as well. He hadn’t believed it at the time, obviously, but the convincing scapegoat avoided a massacre, for which he was alive and grateful.

While technically second in command, he was kept there for his lack of ambition as much as his competence. When Captain Wendigo has asked if he was the new captain, she’d been surprised when he said no. Who’d be a captain? Second has more freedom, and besides, no one assassinates the second, so he had elected another to the captains seat.

Captain Roland was dead. Long live Captain Berk.

His mouth turned in though. They were really going to have to do something about that name.

He looked up to see his new captain, his black mutton chopped face smiling as he talked to the head breaker. While typically a worrier by nature, Unacka liked the appointment and has high hopes for it. Berk and Roland were both capable enough, while not being too capable, and they were the same height and temperament, with Berk being a little better off on both counts. Berk was a less aggressive sort, but craftier, and Unacka was still unsure if that was to his favour or not. Still, it didn’t matter much, and all in all, he felt pretty good about this arraignment. Yes, he should be in a good mood.

While looking through him, Berk’s head turned with idle curiosity at a sudden retch, and Unacka decided to follow his gaze. What to do with her?

The origin of his good fortune had evidently tried to spill her stomach again upon the man fucking her throat, causing him to step back on instinct. Once more free to scream, she got out a crazed animal sound, a bleating of mindless pain conducted by the man wildly savaging her blooded behind.

Fucking her had been quite useful during the interrogation (and for Unacka, who was sure such an… unyielding bottom could only be welcoming guests for the first time, quite pleasurable) but all this seemed unnecessary. A rough slap and she was back on the cock, with her throat bulging away and her tangled hair gripped in two hands. Unacka was glad he could not see her ruined face; she’s been quite pretty before, when she still had those grey watery eyes.

Lost in thought, he looked down and began to toe one her teeth on the deck, rolling it back and forth under his boot. A bit of work with the hammer end of a boarding axe had sent many of them rolling across the boards like dice, gambling in a game she very much lost. But every gambler knows that can happen. Her gamble, her loss; not his fault. He shouldn’t feel bad for her.

One of the men twitched and withdrew; his crimson cock still managing to drip white from its spent end. He’s replaced, though so close to port and so recently having had a night of drinking and whoring, Unacka cannot see why. Such spent and ruined woman cannot be worth it, though even while thinking this did her remind himself that he had ‘cleared his mind’ within her only a few hours ago. Still, it was justified; that had been work, and got her from telling lies to telling the truth. It had been as needed as the hammer and chisel on her fingers, and needed far more than Berks quick and messy pussy fucking.

Perhaps that was the source of the poison souring his mood? Captain Roland had…not been well liked. With his policy of doing it with every new woman who wanted to join, he was particularly hated by the five that did, along with a few of their friends, brothers, lovers, and so forth. They all made a headache for the second in command, who had to smooth over such things. Perhaps Berk was a little too much like Roland? His actions with the assassin had certainly indicated as much.

However, he smiled as he considered that the blond haired ‘Pin’ should settle down now that her ‘nemesis’ was dead. She’s been going bunk to bunk and stirring things up, but now she was less of a problem for him to deal with. If anything, she should be beaming with joy now that her budding mutiny was done for her. And besides, the assassin girl wasn’t joining. In the context of an assassin who killed the previous captain, Berks actions were justifiable. They associated captain killing with a grim fate, and helped solidify his hold on the crew. Roland would probably give the assassin his thanks or something stupid, after fucking her of course.

Perhaps that was why he was unsettled by the rough treatment of the assassin? Berk may be too crafty. Suddenly, blinding and the violent gang **** began to look more sinister. Would a smarter man really need a capable second in command? He may begin to see Unacka as a threat.

‘No, no. Stop worrying, you old fool’ Unacka thought to himself. ‘Everything is fine!’

The girl retched again, snorting out blooded strands of white seed. She’d live. Probably. Or more accurately, she’d last.

‘Everything is fine.’ He looked back up, at the circling gulls.

It was a lovely day.