Szandor forced himself back on his feet and stumbled on towards the noise and the light. And then he stood in the middle of a small village surrounded by natives with spears. He suddenly remembered that he still wore his torn sailor's uniform. "No! Please!", he screamed hoarsley raising his left arm while his right dangled lifeless by his side. Panic striken Szandor looked around and recognised a small group of slaves accompanied by one of the cabin boys from the ship standing in the entrance of a big hut. "You please, I can help you.", he said more silent. 
Szandor bowed his head as the pain caught up with him and saw his reflection in a puddle. His blond hair was blood encrustet and his thin muscular body was tattered and torn showing hundreds of small wounds and scratches. His pale face was a crass contrast to his steel blue eyes. 'I must look like death to them', he thought to himself.