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Dying sucks.
This seems evident, but we're made to think it's all, oh no I'm mortally wounded and I can no longer go on. Here take this final piece of wisdom that you 100% needed to hear as I gracefully ascend into the light.
Ugh, I wish I went like that.
Instead you are subjected to the gods awful noise of getting speared through. You'll stand there for a good while, in shock because there is hole in you.
When you finally fall over, your allies come rushing towards you, except Jerryfin, that gods dammed idiot sorcerer never liked you.
You ask them not to mourne you, they say no and call you a dumbass.
You ruffle through your pockets. You give your favorite swordswoman your sac of shiny stuff. You hand the useless sorcerer (who finally waddled his no good ass over there) a somewhat cursed necklace. You slap a large chunk of pocket lint in the hand of the now very confused archer.
Then you lie down, ready to die, ready to finally call the God you meet a selfish prick. The hole in your torso burning hotter than the fires of hell.
You wait. And you wait.
It is at this moment when you realize how long dying takes. Apparently even if your body is imminently going to lose, rather than giving up (like a certain sorcerer) it keeps going until complete failure, which is insane I know.
Because you cannot stand uncomfortable silence for the life (or death) of you, the last moments of your life is spent rambling about rat anatomy, getting strange looks from your allies. Causing your last words to be something along the lines of; the femur is by far my least favorite bone.
As the faces of your now more concerned than upset allies start to blur and fade to black, the ever present voices in your head cheer like it's a 3am bar fight and they're all too drunk to see who won.
In the darkness, you feel airy and light, that is until you feel a force drag you down. You always knew you'd be dammed.
Or maybe that's just me.