Szandor looked up towards the stormragged clouds. 'Well thats what you get for beeing a humanist on a bloody slaveboat!', he thought to himself. 
Short after this heathen storm had hit the Eel and ripped her sails to shreds, he decided sailor or not he wouldn't let those poor slave bastards drown in the ship's hull. Szandor took one of the boarding axes and snuck down the sterns' storage area to break the chain locks and relase those poor souls. 
Sadly good intentions didn't save Szandor as Ulric caught him and brought him before the captain. The bastards even took the time to let him walk the plank in this bloody hellstorm. 
Szandor looked around. Well he was on dry land now, the gods know how. Only the unnatural bend of his right arm worried him. 'Probably broken', he thought but his senses where numbed by the hypothermia. He pulled himself on shaky legs. 
"Better find some high ground", he whispered to himself, "if those bastards find me again I will have to perform a hangman's jig between the leaves of the next tree I reckon." 
Slowly he climbed a small cliff and moved into the jungle. Almost mad with thirst Szandor aimlessly stumbled onward. But then he heard voices in a strange dialect. Those wheren't kingsmen, those where slaves or natives! Allies! Probably only a couple of feet away!
"Wait!", Szandor cried out and fell onto his knees.