He was dying. Nimbul was dying. He could feel blood, his own blood, welling up inside his mouth, the result of a pierced lung. He lay there, on the ground, dying in a pissy little town from the blade of a Halfling.

"What'cha think we should do with him, Jaheira?" Nimbul's killer nudged the assassin's thigh with her boot.

"Do not disturb the dead, child," the half-elven woman scolded, then looked upon Nimbul's body with disgust, "not even one with so vile a corpse."

Nimbul coughed, determined to defy his killers until the blackness washed over him.

"What is this?" a giant of a man came into Nimbul's field of vision, "the hired murderer has not drawn his last breath! Boo is surprised.not many have survived the gut-wrenching stab of Minsc!"

The man raised his hand, and Nimbul caught a glance of his littler burden. The man was talking to a hamster! Oh, the humiliation to be killed by one so addled.

"To be fair, Minsc, it was me who killed the guy," the Halfling piped, "or.nearly."

"We should end his suffering," the half-elf looked to the senseless one, "Minsc, if you would be so kind?"

"Ok, Hired One, it is time for you to meet your maker," the man raised his sword, levelling it over the assassin's throat.

"I doubt this one will be journeying to such a holy place," the one known as Jaheira grunted.

And Nimbul's life flashed before his eyes.