With great effort, you heave yourself off the cart. Even before you land on the ground, you regret it. You land on your back, and roll a good distance before finally stopping.
The cart driver doesn't seem to notice your absence. He keeps driving along happily, and is soon out of sight in the distance.
You struggle to your feet and take in your surroundings. A small village, complete with dirt roads and thatched huts. Your back is extremely sore; your arms are still bound behind you.
You walk to the nearest hut and stand there for a moment wondering how to knock without your arms. You consider tapping the door lightly with your head, but before you have the chance to embarrass yourself that way, an old lady holding a rolling pin opens the door.
— Good evening, Ma'am. you begin, formally. She looks at you like you're crazy, and you realize she has a good point. You gesture towards your bound hands, and she seems to understand. She turns and shouts into the hut in a strident voice and a foreign language.
A young boy, no taller than the old woman, returns with a serrated knife which, like all knives, looked bigger and sharper than it was. You panic for a moment, then realize her intentions and turn around. The ropes are sawed in seconds; you look at her with gratitude, unsure of how to express it.
She understands your expression and invites you inside. You graciously accept and enter the small mud hut just as the last bit of sun melts away over the horizon.