(I got a 3.  Not the best start.)<br/><br/>Roga groaned as he regained consciousness.  For a few moments, all he could feel was death.  Or, at least, what he imagined was death, given nothing wanted to move.  Thus, his first action was to reach up and flop his hand over one of his eyes.  "Ughhh," he whimpered.  As soon as the sun stopped stabbing him in the brain, he started to think a little clearer.<br/><br/>Where the hell was he?  The last thing he remembered, he was arguing with a guard over a skunk and two... wait, no, that was last month.  Had he been unconscious for a month?  No, he remembered running from the same guard who was covered in hot tar just a week later.  Gradually, his memories started to return to him.  The break-in, the swords, the guard getting covered in hot tar, and then the offer to board the ship.  And now, here he was, on this very... sandy ship.<br/><br/>Roga uncovered his eyes and felt around.  Still unable to stand, he didn't know what else to do.  He was surrounded by sand and he could hear waves nearby.  Had they made landfall?  Why would they just drag him off the ship and leave him here?  He didn't think they were that close to their destination, though his addled brains might have been lying to him.  Was he drinking last night?  He usually didn't.  He pried his brain for clue... well hello.  He felt his fingers wrap around a small leather cylinder.  Did he take this with him?  Did the crew leave it for him?<br/><br/>He kept pondering these questions, but then something caught his eyes.  With great effort, he managed to grab the cylinder and roll over.  Then he slowly managed to lift his head.  He could've sworn he'd seen something moving.  Slowly, stiffly, he smiled.  "Hi, there," he said.  "I'm having an interesting morning."