August 30th, 1813

You and your platoon—at least, what remains of your platoon—wait atop the deck of the HMS Undaunted along with the other British, French, and Portuguese troops as it sails across the water. The waves headed for safety after your narrow escape from those creatures—cannibals—in San Sebastian.

You yourself are seated away from the other survivors, wanting a moment to clear your head after the somewhat traumatizing experience you had save for the ginger man sat beside you, fidgeting with his fife with a small frown on his face.

It takes a moment, but you eventually recognize him as the one who saved you and your remaining men by lowering you all from the wall to the sand. He would've been forced to sacrifice himself if he hadn't been blown up by a cannibal with a gunpowder barrel and flung down onto the sand with minimal injuries. It was almost comedic.

He seems relatively unscathed somehow, aside from a slight wince of discomfort every time he moves his left arm to press his fingers over the holes.