I am in psycho-writer-bitch mode right now. I apologize to my editor (I SORRY:( ). This is the post-tweaking edition of my fic since it got, uh, deleted. I, uh, don't feel like writing out a disclaimer, so you know the drill: I don't own blah-blah-blah (I assume you're smart enough to figure out what is mine, although if it's a part from something else I'll say something)...To my onsite friends: Skye Agony, Guitarist of doom; Vamperfly; Twilight-la-fae; and Thousand faces...Hiya! I hope you're reading this. To everyone who is reading this: enjoy it. Or else!!!!!

It was a dark, stormy night. (I know it's too cliché, deal with it) The moon peeked out from behind passing clouds, as if tentative to show its face. The wind howled like a fitful child, banging shutters and doors, shrieking through the crevices. In port, one general store still contained flickering candle light.

A lonely vessel sailed into town. It was unmistakably a pirate's vessel; too weathered to be a merchant's ship, but with enough artillery to be a naval warship.

Inside the general store, an old man bent over a book. His skin was ancient, leathery and wrinkled like aged parchment.

"Would you like me to do inventory, Mr. 'opkins?" a girl with brown hair asked. She had been through a lot; it showed in her eyes. They were haunted eyes, like type you'd see in war refugees. She swished her waist-length, curly/wavy brunette locks. "Mr. 'opkins?"

"Oh, yes, yes, m'dear, that would be good.' The old man replied, glancing up from the ledger that he was updating. The girl turned around and entered the back storeroom, located behind the counter.

As she worked, she hummed some tune that had been stuck in her brain since forever. Quite mysteriously. There where a lot of mysterious things about her; she had showed up three months ago with absolutely nothing but a small trunk (filled with bodies!!!! (Just kidding). Mr. Hopkins had taken her in to be his assistant (hard to run things by yourself when you're an old geezer. Tee-hee) in exchange for boarding and food. Even he knew hardly anything about her. Only her name. Furana.

The door opened as two pairs of footsteps were heard to have been entering. A familiar and foreboding voice said, "We lookin' fer a girl..."

"I'm sorry, gentleman, this is no brothel house." (Old people tend to misunderstand)

"A specific one. She be nineteen an' pretty tall. Brown 'air, brown eyes... Ye saw 'er?" Furana inhaled sharply and backed against the wall, hoping that they hadn't seen her.

"Oh, sorry, I can't say that I have. So disappointed I couldn't help you." (Aaaww! That's so sweet...he's protecting her...)

"Heh-heh-heh. We sorry too." She heard the creepy laughter just before she heard the sounds of steel entering and exiting flesh, and the thud of dead wait hitting the floor. Unfortunately, she knew what that sound meant; they were back. She gasped and slid silently down the wall.

On her hands and knees, she crouched down and dared to peer out the doorway. When she saw that they were leaving, she breathed a sigh of relief. Then, she felt the hand on her shoulder. It belonged to another one of them.

So trouble dares to sneak in without knocking? She thought, I can deal. She whirled around, punching her attacker in the face before he could take a breath. He backed away, clutching the nose that she had probably just broken, giving her the chance to get up. She kicked him in the head, and then whacked him with a pewter candlestick that she had just snatched off of a shelf, knocking him unconscious.

Furana dusted off her hands. "Mess with Furana Delamar, and ye'll get your ass whipped." She proclaimed matter-of-factly, crouched down onto the floor, afterwards.

Furana pried up a small section of the floorboards, revealing a compartment underneath. In it was a sword, a pair of breeches and a trunk she changed from her skirt and underpinnings into the breeches, clipped the sword in its scabbard to her belt, and fixed her tunic. Finally, she reached for the trunk.

Opening it displayed it contents; a map, a journal, a large pistol, and a hat. Furana stuck the hat on her head. She took a well worn coat off of a hook on the wall and stuck the pistol, the map, and the journal into separate pockets.

"I'm sorry." She whispered at Mr. Hopkins' corpse. "Goodbye." She slipped out the back door into an alley way. From there, she found her way down to the docks. Furana took one last look at her home before she leaped onto a sleeping sheep and hid in their cargo hold. Once more, she had temporarily eluded the problem that plagued her.

One month later...

Furana stepped off of the boat. Idiots, she thought silently. The sailors on the ship had found. Out that she was stowing away. Rather than kill her, they had locked her in a holding cell in the cargo hold of the ship. She'd picked the lock that morning while it was dark. She strolled away, now, as the sun started to rise.

Her hair was shorter now, shoulder length, and was tied back into a matted ponytail. The knee-length coat she wore had become even more worse-for-the-wear than it had been. Scant meals had caused her to be thin, and that made her seem taller. She whistled the same tune that she had before, only now it seemed to have a sad, haunting element to it.

That night, she stood in a back alley in the pouring rain. Drenched to the bone, rivulets of water streaming down her face, she huddled in a corner. She was safe in Tortuga, for a while. But who knew for how long...

(The End)

was it good? was it bad? please review and let me know! toodles, Siren's Voice