You had stowed away on a ship for some reason or another, maybe even by accident, and were caught in the crate where you had been hiding. Two bulky sailors clench tightly around your arms as you're staggered ruthlessly against the deck, crashing slightly against the door as you enter the captain's quarters, and are dropped before a large, built man in full, metal plate armour. Stern eyes side-eye you as he turns his head before moving entirely around to scowl down at you, speaking in a guttural, husky voice like the unsettling sound of a body being dragged across wooden floors. A flat, authoritative tone carried in his every deliberate word

"My crew... was as carefully chosen as the disciples of Christ. I will not tolerate stowaways."