…say goodbye and continue alone.

Seeing her naked, battered and most likely, ‘well known’ form, you briefly imagine a situation were walking down the street together wouldn’t end badly for the both of you. None springing to mind. From the sound of it, she’s more likely to kick in the front door of this ‘mansion house’ and get herself killed. If she won’t accept your help to get her of the island, fine, but you’re not going to drag her into your problems.

“Uh...Thanks.” There’s a moments awkwardness, so you add, “Good luck on your mission....and don’t die.”

‘Smooth as sandpaper’ as your father would often say.

Regardless of its delivery, you hope she takes it to heart. She smiles,

“Da same for you as well. Goodbye...my friend.”

Before you can answer she is pressed up against the door and slowly opening it. Whatever she sees in the corridor, she finds it suitable, swinging the door open and moving to another nearby door. She opens it before the first door could swing closed, showing you some familiar night air, and disappearing into the darkness. All her movements were soundless and her body moved like water down the path of least resistance. You stare after her for a moment.

Wondering what you’re still doing standing next to the recently open stocks in a room that anyone could walk into, you jump and move to follow her out of whatever back exit she took. Finding that the corridor is indeed empty, you move through the nearby doorway and find yourself once again under the moons constant gaze. Looking about, you see no movement. Either your new friend is long gone or, more likely, she is taking full advantage of her skin colour. You put your helmet back on in order to find both the path to the manor and a nearby building to deposit your now unnecessary armour in. Unfortunately you also find a large group of men near the gate way leading up to the hill top mansion.

Looking at the group from the shadows several houses down, you realise that this presents a problem; the group is standing near a gate that leads out of the village and onto the open ground leading to your destination. While your fairly sure that sneaking past in your armour would present no problems, a safe opportunity to dispose of your armour closer to the manor is not guaranteed. Indeed, if you were in charge of the manors security, you would have one guard watching the road, probably from the roof. Such a guard would see any attempt at deception and as anyone with reason to approach probably knows of the ‘no weapons, no armour policy’, it would likely draw unnecessary attention to you. You need to remove your armour before you approach.

However; all the men in the group are large, scarred, sport a number of tattoos and most importantly of all; are all wearing white and red colours. A single woman walking alone, seemingly unarmed and wearing the colours of a group they don’t get along with may not exactly be safe around them. You remember the white bearded pirate walking up the hill, the way he tried to reach for you. You have no intension of being dragged into some building and being their ‘entertainment’ for the night. The group are about fifteen strong and are just talking and loitering for now. You won’t risk walking past them without your male disguise.

Presented with the quandary; you decide to hide in a nearby building and do the only thing that you can do. Wait. Making sure that you’re alone, you remove your helmet and chest piece, placing them gently on the dark floor. Back in the sleeveless, yellow and red leather jacket, you remember all the pain you went through to get that armour and you throw it a grimace of dissatisfaction. It got you through the inn, more or less, and helped you learn the location of your target, more or less, but still… You slip your hand under the jacket and place it on your small bruised bosom; the source of the tender pain you’re still going though. Leaving your dainty breast alone, you watch the group from the dark of the door way, still milling about, and you examine your successes on the island; your daring approach to the shore, floating with the seaweed, nearly getting spotted, the thrill of it all both exhilarating and terrifying. Changing, murdering, changing, then the long walk. It somehow seems so long ago. Looking at the stars you judge only the passing of an hour or so. After that, you killed another man and stole some more clothes, wondered through a den of sin and found a friend, felt a kiss...

Why do you keep coming back to that? It wasn’t even a good kiss. You sigh; as if you’d know. You touch your mouth and find it still wet. In all the excitement and keeping your helmet on, you hadn’t had time to wipe it clean of the residue she left.

You move to do so but hesitate. For one insane second, it almost feels like a betrayal; like throwing away a gift you were given. Sharply remembering the wetness’s original owner -the panting, the look of **** hopelessness, the long moaning spasm- you wipe your mouth and the side of your face with your arm, trying to shake the confusing fog from your mind as you do so. You fail, finding no clarity no matter how vigorously you rub, remembering the dance of her tongue in your mouth, the teasing feel of it against your own, her soft lips. You see why people kiss like that, though it seems like such a childish thought on refection.

With nothing better to do, you decide to sort out the muddle she made of your tidy mind once and for all, by thinking back on the incident you were too busy and confused to think of at the time. As if clear thought opened the flood gates, details that you never registered at the time come flooding forward; the soft sheen of sweat on her brow, the way she closed her eyes, her hands tilting your head, The sweaty sea like smell that still clings to you, the texture of her tongue, the way her lips **** your stunned mouth open with practiced ease. The length, depth and breadth of the whole thing all sparks across your mind.

You remember your previous kisses, red faced pecks on cheeks, and the boy whose lips fleetingly pressed against your own. While you have seen other people engage in the kind of kisses that should only be shared between husband and wife, if then, you always saw them as sloppy and unpleasant looking. You never thought you would experience someone’s tongue in your mouth, outside of perhaps wedlock. It was too ... intimate. Perhaps that is why it’s been clogging up your thoughts. You re-think the situation with that in mind. Yes, it makes sense; you saw the woman first using her tongue to **** a woman at the behest of a mob. She then turned that weapon on you of her own free will. She’s evil, as bad as any of her clientele.

To a lesser existent...she attacked you...right?

A flash of unwilling imagination forces its way into your mind. You see yourself, tied to a bed, legs held down, the short black hair of your crotch, the tongue that invaded your mouth now invading your womanhood, twisting and squirming inside. An unfamiliar -but not altogether unpleasant- feeling shivers down your body and you know that this matter is not resolved. Still, with it weighed and quantified in your mind, you are now able to categorise it better, neatness somewhat restored in the library of your memories. Perhaps when this is over you will think on it again.

Sensing weakness or perhaps trying to help, your imagination conjures up another, fouler image. One of you in the stocks as a room of pirates looks on, the cheer of the crowd, the dripping sweat, the man behind you.

The warm tingle that ran through your body is turned into a cold creeping one, leaving you as weary as you should be. You rein in your mental faculties for the mission and watch the group ahead.

They seems ready to leave now, heading back into the village towards the inn or the docks. They walk past your dark refuge with swinging lanterns nearly revealing your dark watch and you see the bulges of weapons hiding under cloths and angry but determined expressions on their faces. Two of them you recognise at the sailors from outside the inn; who had the unfortunate and heated collision with their more numerous red and yellow counterparts. This could be useful, you sense sparks marching towards tinder, and with both sides ready to be used as fuel for the fire, it can only draw attention away from the manor that stands as your destination.

They disappear around the corner and you finally walk out of your temporary accommodation, walking past the decrepit stone gateposts and up to the manor on the hill without incident. As you travel the path, first dirt, then gravel as you near, you see that the manor is surrounded by a grassy lawn, with trees beyond it, the wide open space one that would have made sneaking up to it quite a challenge. You see a shape moving on the top of the building and smile.

The building itself is not grand, but it has the air of money to it that your target likes. Large windows, mostly dark and lifeless, are scattered about between the ground floor and upper, and is stretches a fair way lengthwise, promising many rooms of unnecessary grandeur. The path splits as you near the building, and you follow the greater half that leads around the right side of the house to the front door, which is set into an alcove at the buildings front.

The guard on duty looks like someone carved him out of rock; all angles and mass. An axe hangs at his belt and he looks suitably dangerous as you approach, leaning against the buildings wall and watching your approach with one open eye. He wears red and white armour, similar to your own, but you sense no outward hostility from him.

Maintaining an air of calm as his gaze clambers over your face and body, you continue forward and approach the door. Hoping that it really will be so simple, you push it open and move to enter. The guard says nothing, not even frisking you for weapons; an oversight on his part but one that you will happily accept.