Malcador was in trouble. 

The sea had ruined his ship, and sent it aground more than once. Well, not his ship, exactly. Malcador was the resident mage, hired by one Haldemar Bodaventure to utilize his expertise in glyphs and language. Malcador seemed an incredibly astute and capable candidate. Handsome, debonair, intelligent, and charismatic, Malcador was one of the most promising up and coming sorcerers of the Mythrim Tethir, the great international guild of mages that was a nation in its own right. He had been recommended under strict and exuberant commendations. Unfortunately, Malcador also happened to be completely ineffectual on the sea. 

When the crew had hit solid ground, Malcador stumbled off the gangplank and practically kissed the sand. 

"Up lad, we've got a ways to go." Pikard said, the old boatswain walking with his roiling gait a man only used when either born in the saddle or the boat. He had a wide mouth covered in ubiquitous hair one might have considered a goatee if they were generous. He helped Malcador up, and they further caught up with the boating party. All who ventured from the boats consisted of a dozen men, armed with cutlasses and equipment such as ropes, grappling hooks, shovels, eyeglasses, and various other tools for the adventuring their expedition entailed. 

Malcador stayed at the back, sick as a dog and weary. His normally suave demeanor was just surface level, if that. He had a sickly paleness to him, and he drank water only every moment or two to keep his stomach from rebelling against his sensibilities. They had warned him of tropical diseases they might gain on the island, but he had already been subject to such on the bloody boat. Damn, he wanted the gods to give him some kind of sign. A healthy stomach and a good woman would do, and maybe some rum. He was going to get his wish, but not in the way he had considered. But the Gods played tricks like that.