Tight spot

You quickly pick yourself up off the floor and assess the situation. The room is a bedroom from the look of it; a large four poster bed built for two sits against the wall opposite the door you came in from, and small piles of used clothes dot the room in a messy lived in way that appears villainous to your tidy sensibilities. Narrow, closed windows line the far wall, while the wall to your left holds several wardrobes, dressers and a closed door, and the wall to your right, beyond a large round table, holds a wide, half open window that could provide escape if you were sure you wouldn’t be cut down crossing the distance. Small clusters of candles dot the room and provide more than enough flickering light to see by, giving everything multiple slithering shadows, including your captors. For some reason, you give the clothes on the floor a second look, an odd detail catching in your mind; they appear strategically piled, various undergarments coincidently on the top, made of material too little or too thin to ever be considered proper clothing. Such provocative garments (if that’s what some of them even are) are likely there for Captain Roland’s benefit; a means to distract or inspire his attention during negotiation, and perhaps insight into their relationship. You look up at the two of them, closely, for the first time.

Captain Washkin, the very woman you’re here to kill, leans against one of the bedposts, one hand on her hip, the other holding the thin sword at her side. Though it’s pointed at the floor, it still draws your attention, catching the yellow candle light on its polished steel edge. Her face is an unreadable mask, flushed cheeks, blood red lips, and piercing black lined eyes all forged with the finest makeup and years of skill. While heavily applied, its application is still lighter than that of most whores or noble women, enough natural beauty present that burying it would be a detriment. And, you have to admit, it’s effective; it accentuates her every feature perfectly, leaving her looking about your age instead of almost ten years your senior. It all sits under a length of long blond hair like spun gold, shoulder length at the front but longer behind, disappearing down her back in a ponytail. Her sea blue eye’s look at you and sometimes flick to Roland, constantly calculating and showing a complete control of the room and the situation. Her attire is tailored to her form and task, fit for both combat and seduction; knee high black boots hold tight brown trousers, and a white ruffled shirt is tucked into those, while a thick leather belt hugs her hips, holding a finely crafted scabbard against her leg, its end hidden in the fall of her long red, white and gold trimmed, coat, hanging open yet hugging her frame as its tailored shape follows the contours of her body. The whole outfit serves its purpose: highlighting her wide hips, thick thighs and full bust, while letting no one mistake who is in charge.

Captain Roland’s appearance couldn’t be more different. His face is lined and weathered more by hard years than old age, and it’s currently twisted in rage as he looks at you. Reports of his short stature are clearly true as he stands only a little higher than your fairly pitiful height. Apart from that though, he cuts quite an intimidating figure. His long sleeveless leather jacket is coloured in bright alternating red and yellow stripes, sitting over a loose white shirt and brown trousers that are held up by a thick belt carrying two long daggers sheathed at either side of his waist. His hand grips one of the daggers with white knuckles, ready to draw at a moment’s notice. His hair is thinning on the top of his head but seems full at the sides, with some of it drawn back into a short brown ponytail that’s slightly streaked with grey. He has a scar that runs the width of his left temple, a clear line of healed skin that streaks through his hair on one side of his head, thinning it and giving him a slightly lopsided appearance. It merges with thick, unkempt stubble that has more than a few grey ends.

While Captain Washkin looks younger than she is, he looks older. He can’t be too much over forty yet looks to be pushing fifty or sixty. To make it even more confusing, he has agitated anger of a man of twenty or thirty, eager for action and near bouncing from foot to foot. All told and considered, if Captain Washkin’s ensemble wants people to know who is in charge, his wants to be seen, and to pick a fight with the seer; his very jacket is an attack on the eyes, its colours a challenge to the senses, and the rest is scruffy enough to curse the idea of decorum.

You see your blade in his other hand, its weight and balance measured as he walks to the door you came in through. He throws it idly into the connected room and it clatters on the floor, behind one of the chests from the sound of it.

He walks back in just as Captain Washkin begins to smoothly speak.

“So...”

Before she can ask a question however, Roland punches you right in the face.

The first you know about it is a flash of knuckles and whiteness filling your left eye for the briefest moment, the hard blow sending you spinning back to the floor. Your vision swims and doubles as it fights shooting starts, and a dull ache immediately starts at the back of your head. Before you have a chance to right yourself, a hand grabs the front of your jacket and lifts you to your feet, but it isn’t a second of standing before another fist rams into your stomach, doubling you over with pain. You struggle to breathe as he rights you again, and again punches you in the stomach, the second blow worsening your gasping breaths and sinking you to your knees, eyes closed and doubled over with pain. You try to focus on your breathing, swallowing and fighting your locked lungs and spasming stomach, to restore the rhythm that he beat out of you, but the pain makes it difficult to think of anything. He grabs the tight brown bun at the back of your head and yanks you into a straight backed kneel. You manage to focus on him just in time to see his open palm slap catch you right across the face, its **** sending you right back to the floor. You taste blood.

He stands over you, breathing steadily.

“That’s for wearing my colours.”

The side of your face burns and your stomach has the dull ache of blossoming bruises. That was extremely unpleasant. Your breathing starts its steady return to normality and you try to marshal your dizzy thoughts into solutions. He doesn’t let you think though.

“Now WHO ARE YOU, and WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE?!”

You flinch involuntarily as he shouts, looking up at his face and finding his rage nowhere near subsiding for the punishment he just gave you. If anything, it seemed to be increasing. Captain Washkin looks on like a disapproving mother letting her spoiled child get it out of his system. Her words are calm. Stern.

“Best start telling the truth now my dear. I won’t be so gentle.”

Roland seems to bristle at the words, goaded into further fits of fury by her condescending tone. She look at him with a small smile, goading him on to try and frighten you, like a master with a loud barking dog. You practically see the leash about his neck. The worst part is that it’s working.

You have little time to figure out what to do and make a plan that won’t get you killed. You could lie. You can’t think of a good one right now, but if you keep them talking then you might think of something. You feel your mind getting clearer with every second he doesn’t hit you; you should try to keep that up as well.

Lies. Lies or what? The truth? It’s probably already pretty obvious why you’re here, so you could just tell it to them and see what happens. There’s no nice way to say ‘I’m here to kill you’, but perhaps you could phase it better? They may respect the idea of someone killing for money, but probably not for justice, and… maybe they would appreciate the honesty? Oh Gods, what are you thinking?! They’re still pirates!

You could say nothing; let the scum keep wondering. If they can’t make you talk easily then they may have you locked up to deal with later. Locks and unwary guards are far easier to escape from than two well-armed and attentive pirate captains. It wouldn’t be pleasant though, and may go against the ‘don’t get hit again’ policy of an ideal solution.

Three bad options for a terrible situation, and no time to think of more. After a split seconds consideration,