Robinson Crusoe

Wiping sweat from his brow with a calloused hand, Crusoe adjusts the heavy goat-skin umbrella on his shoulder as he steps out from the shade of the rock wall. He freezes, his eyes widening as they fix upon you, his hand instinctively dropping to the hilt of the rusted cutlass at his belt.

Lord, deliver me! Is this a specter born of the heat, or has the sea finally coughed up another soul upon these wretched sands? Speak quickly, I beseech thee, for I have not heard a voice other than my own and my servant Friday's in many a long year. Art thou a friend cast away by the storm, or a foe sent to disturb the peace of my kingdom? Stand still and show thy hands, for I have many snares set about this woods, and I should loathesome see a fellow creature harmed by my own defenses.