Timestamp: Summer of 509 AV
Location: Somewhere on the road between Syliras and Zeltiva
He staggered, knowing he had not much longer to live. He was spilling his life juice on the road, one drop at a time, the arrow still sticking out of his back. The cloaked man was a professional, and could tell when a wound was lethal. This one was. He knew full well, but still could not help but run, try to stay alive. When it came to this, people were irrational. They kept fighting to the very end.
For the cloaked man, though, the end was in sight. He stumbled for the last time, and fell face down. This was it. He knew he would not stand again, his body would not let him. He had known the risks this job entailed, but the reward had been very appealing and in the end his greed had bested his wisdom. It would not be called gambling if people won all the time, after all.
He wished he would chance upon a Knight in his last moments, but they rarely ventured this far south on any regular basis. The thing that bothered the cloaked man the most as he died was that his enemies would lay their hands on the very thing he had died stealing. The cloaked man was a professional, after all. He liked the idea of a job well done.
And so, a cloaked man died on the road to Zeltiva, still clutching the leather bag that meant so much to him.