The sudden fountain that springs up in front of you. It covers you with the black goo it’s spitting out. Slowly it consumes you and you can do nothing about it. The world around you is spinning. You’re perfectly still, but the whole world is spinning. In these final moments of your life, you think of everything you’ve ever done. All your accomplishments that have led to this slow and dizzying death. No one will ever know where you disappeared off to. Most will assume you just ran away off on another pointless adventure. Eventually, someone a few centuries from now will find your bones perfectly preserved in the tar. They’ll examine you and determine your age, gender, and even what era you’re from. They might notice the remodeling on that one bone you broke as a kid. Maybe they’ll see where you were stabbed in the leg that one night. Your leg never worked the same after that. They might figure out your profession from occupational markers. Maybe they’ll try to find who you were. Maybe they’ll figure out who you are and maybe they’ll try to contact your few living relatives... if any. Maybe people will miss you. You might go into a museum as evidence from the past. That’s all you are anyway, evidence. These people bottled up their feelings long ago. How else are they supposed to deal with dead bodies?
At this point, you probably forgot that how you died was so strange. Maybe that was your mind compensating for how terrible your death actually was. You were stuck in the tar for what seemed like forever before you actually died. Next time when you’re adventuring maybe you shouldn’t step in the mysterious substance. Of course, there won’t be a next time. You’re dead after all, face it.