A filthy, pock-marked, balding, squat, pot-bellied ne'er do well, Tosh was leading a satisfactory life of petty scams, whore-mongering, and the occasional low-risk burglary when Sir Froderic passed through town on his way to explore the old dwarven mine. When one of Tosh's stable of underage pickpockets tried to unsuccessfully make off with Froderic's sword, Tosh found himself implicated and facing the gallows. Sir Froderic, recognizing that he could use all the men he could find in this expedition, offered Tosh the chance to accompany him to the mines rather than dance on air.
Tosh examined his choices and agreed, bringing along a few of his gang. "Who knows?", he thought. "Maybe this will be my big break! Or at least I can open Sir Froderic's throat when we're out of town."
Sadly, Tosh never got either his big break or the chance to open Froderic's throat. Injured in the fall of a crumbling cliff within the dwarven mine, Tosh persevered and climbed from the cavern floor toward what he thought might be a treasure filled tomb. There he found a hunched figure gibbering to itself. He tossed up some food from his pack before scrambling over the ledge. The creature devoured it, and Tosh scrambled up. He pulled a bottle of wine from his pack and shook it enticingly, with his sword behind his back ready to strike. Unfortunately the creature, a dwarven ghoul, was less interested in the wine than in devouring Tosh, and leapt to attack him. Tosh spun aside form the fiend's charge, relying on his years of experience in climbing to let him dance on the cliff's edge. Perhaps too many yeas had gone by. Tosh slipped and fell back down the cliff, screaming in rage and terror, before his skull was shattered on the rocks below.
Lesson: Don't pickpocket from fighters. Instead, slit their throats in their sleep.