The half-elf laid on his back, the coastal rain landing heavy on his weakening body and despite the warm weather, the cold claws of Kelemvor's hold is strengthening. The half-elf coughs and blood thickly pools in the back of his throat, some spitting out through his teeth to dribble out the corners of his mouth, but less and less make it out with each weakening cough. Jory lies dead a dozen or so feet away, his eyes frozen in the moment of surprise at the speed in which his life ended. The sun in the same spot as it was moments before when they were all traveling together, it seemed like days ago now, but really it was minutes before everything changed.

“Diego Dela Vega.” the voice called out, strong and calm, it was not a question, he already knew who he was, he probably knew before they even took the same caravan together, that was almost 2 months ago. It started 4 days out of Shadowdale where they split from the main train and headed further south. He was fast, by Mask he was fast. Gomez was a like-able enough fellow, always with a joke, usually at Jory's expense and kept the mood light. He was sitting up with me like usual as I took my turn at the reins and I was laughing at something he said when with a fluid motion Gomez stood and threw a dagger into the throat of the young mage we picked up in Shadowdale. His hands went up in reflex and arcane lines started to shimmer in the air but it quickly faded as he tried to speak and only a wheeze escaped his lips before he toppled out the back of the wagon. In shock I just sat there as Gomez drew his razor thin blade, so thin and sharp I did not even feel it slide between my ribs. Blackness took hold as Gomez slashed the the leather cords holding the horses to the wagon and it pitches forward and the ground rushes up to greet me.

Diego's vision swims and blurs as he struggles to stay awake and to focus on the form now standing over him. The ragged holes that pierced through his lungs making it impossible to utter a curse at the dark form the looms over. Gomez's silver-white beard a sharp contrast to the dark gray color of the flesh. Diego tries to force his body to act, to run, to fight, to call out for aid, but it is too late for any of that and he knows it, but he tries in vain anyway. He blinks to rid the rain water out of his eyes and is surprised to see his vision is still clouded, it won't be long now. For the last 3 years Diego thought he finally found something that might lighten his soul when he stands before Kelemvor's hall of the dead and maybe be spared a spot in the wall, his soul dissolving over eternity, but now it seems death has come before he could maybe make things right. Funny really, setting of to an island of death to stop a curse of death and now here he is, dying before he could even start the journey. He would laugh at the irony if he had not begun drowning in his own blood.

“Diego Dela Vega” he says once again as he leans over the body of the half-elf and tears off the amulet around the corpse's neck, an image of a skeletal hand holding a set of scales revealed as the blood is rinsed from the holy symbol by the rain. He then reaches for the wide brimmed hat that lay a few feet from the body as well as the whip he kept at his hip. After a moment of digging through the half-elf's belongings he finds a note and opens it. “Syndra Silvane… curious”. Placing the hat on his head the dark skinned figure makes his way towards one of the horses grazing off in the distance with a practiced smile on his face.