Fimble McGee, Gnome Illusionist
Fimble is silent for a moment. Then, "So what does this mean? Was he an agent of the rat-burglars and they took him out because he betrayed them? Was he really on our side all along? I don't think we'll be getting any answers from this corpse." Fimble wrinkles his nose at the mutilated body. Mixed in with the disgust is a look of sadness, though. "And in this condition, if we tried to bring Dak anywhere for, say a proper burial, I think he would... fall apart." The gnome sighs. "I hate to say it, but I think we have to leave him here and move on. Is anybody willing to... to poke around for... well, something, I don't know what... something on his person?" Fimble hasn't seen too much death in his mostly privileged life, and he's never seen anything as gross as this. He's having some trouble keeping the contents of his stomach where they belong. So he stops talking and takes some deep breaths of pungent, sewer air.