[b][/b]Tibor finished treating the halfling, then stood. Looking at the rest, he could only shake his head. He had hoped, though he knew better, that they would have already taken care of the other man. '[i]The folly of youth[/i],' the tortle's grandfather would say, '[i]to hope without cause. It is not the way of the world to live up to your expectations.[/i]'

Going over to the man on the ground, he looked down at him. It took only a glance to confirm what he already knew. There was no fixing that wound. "[color=007236]If Tibor coulda fixed de wound,[/color]" he began, as he reached his hand to his belt, taking out his mace, "[color=007236]he woulda seen to de man first. Dis man, he not deserve de life Tibor could offer him.[/color]"

With a single, swift motion, he'd bring down the head of his mace onto the man's head. Tibor was large, and quite strong. His heavy mace would make short work of the task, ending Ironheart's suffering in a single blow. There was no need to prolong it, and the cleric was somewhat disappointed his 'companions' had let him lay in his suffering as long as they had. He decided to assume it was just the ways of the mainland, one of many that marked it different from his home of Chult.

Bending down, he began to look through the man's possessions. There was his weapon, a large, two-handed hammer, which Tibor had no training to wield himself. That he would toss towards the other warrior, Alandra, thinking she would be able to catch it. The backpack and everything in it he would casually take himself, getting it out of the way to start taking off his chain-mail armor. Once that was pulled free of him, all that was left was the belt pouch with coins in it, which he himself took half of.

After tossing the backpack into the wagon, Tibor set down his weapons and went to work, taking the man to the side of the road and putting together a funeral pyre. It would take time, but as a servant of Kelemvor, it was his duty to see to the deceased. Death in flames seemed appropriate for a warrior taken in battle. Once finished, he would turn to Azra, calling out to him if need be.

"[color=007236][b]Tiefling,[/b][/color]" he yelled, waving the man over with a solemn voice and stern look about him, "[color=007236]use dat magic of yours and light dis for me. Least you can do for de man.[/color]" 

Making sure to get close to him, so his whisper could be heard, he'd casually place a claw on Azra's shoulder before he continued. "[color=007236]And when you tell dis story, you make sure dere were at least ten ah dem batiri, and dis man kill eight o' dem. At least.[/color]" That would be the last words he spoke, until the pyre was nothing but ash on the side of the road.