Albert's Prayers to St. Carwin

[Mixxi]

Albert

The two sentries at the Scarwood outpost heard the rider approaching long before they saw him. The off-key humming carried painfully well on the evening breeze. When the rider himself appeared, the guards stayed obscured in the shadows, the younger one especially  enjoying a bit of welcome diversion from the monotony of guard duty. The rider was certainly eye-catching. His blue and orange robes flapped around his rather skinny legs, and he had a large book propped open on the saddle in front of him. The humming stopped abruptly as the rider bent closer to the page in the gloom, his long nose nearly brushing the page. "I say, Parker. I'm not at all sure this the road we want," he commented, apparently to the rather smallish earth elemental that lumbered along behind the horse.

As the junior guard started to step forward to challenge the rider, a squirrel darted across the path directly in front of the approaching horse, which shied a bit. To the sentry's surprise, the rider shrieked and threw his hands in the air, sending the book flying and himself tumbling from the saddle. The older guard grunted and ambled forward slowly to pick up the book, while his companion hurried forward to help the fallen rider to his feet.

"Oh, thank-you so much. Such a shock, that beast rushing out like that," the fair-haired mage prattled as he climbed back into the saddle. "Would you mind handing me my sword there? Yes. Thanks ever so much. And the wand. Yes. And I think that's all. Is that all?" The Mathosian looked vaguely around at the ground.

"Your book, sir," said the older guard, at last stepping forward and handing the tome up to the mage. With a flutter of hands and effusive thanks, the traveler accepted the book and rearranged it among the other books and bags tied all over the saddle, managing to tie his reins into the knot briefly before he noticed it. The younger guard turned aside to hide a grin, but the veteran looked up into the rider's face. "You be careful sir. No telling who you'll meet on the road these days," he warned and stepped back to let the rider continue his journey.

As the horse, rider, and elemental ambled off along the path, the younger guard stood with his hands on his hips, watching them go and shaking his head. "It's a wonder some folk don't get themselves killed," he commented, and then turned to follow his comrade back to the scant warmth of the sentry tent.

In the lengthening shadows of the trail, the rider began to hum again, this time softly, as he mused on the contents of the report that now lay tucked between the pages of his book.

                           *                                                   *                                              *           
Deep in the last stand of granitewood Albert lowers himself to the ground beside the shrine to Saint Carwin Mathos and leans back against the fresh-cut stone. Choosing a bottle from the offerings at the foot of the shrine, he uncorks it and takes a long swallow, allowing his face to lose its fatuous expression and his eyes to close.

I suppose the good thing about having your drinking buddy become a saint is that you can talk to him anytime, eh, Carwin? And the bottle all for me. But...a saint? The mage shakes his head and opens his eyes, gazing off into the distance.

The first guardian martyr, they call you. You didn't have to be a martyr you know. Give your healers a bit of warning before you start taunting the enemy, eh? We didn't even get off a single spell, you know, before you were gone. Dammit, Carwin.

And me--Ascended. The rest of us, too, I imagine. All us bastards and younger sons—all Blood and no birthright. But good for fighting.   The fair-haired man lets his head drop back against the shrine. And spying.

I've found a few of the old company. We've started up the usual message drop network of innkeepers and wayside shrines. We're even using your shrines, Carwin, so you might want to look in on them from time to time. And half the abbots and such at your shrine in Sanctum are the old crowd. They let me sleep there when I'm in town. And drink a bit of the gifts of the faithful.

Albert raises the bottle in salute and takes another long swallow.

Things are strange now, Carwin. All the betrayals, the tricks, the desertions. It's hard to know who to trust and who to kill. Defiants in the taverns at Argent Glade, no less. Some think we need to join forces with them to put down the evil brought by the Shade War. I'm trying to sort it all out, but it changes from day to day it seems.

If only your father had been gelded at birth, Carwin.

Albert takes one last swallow and pours a bit on the base of the shrine.

Bless the bastards, eh Carwin? We can use all the help we can get.

Rising, he places the bottle back with the other offerings and brushes the grass off his robe. His face softens and resumes its vague look.

Time for little Albert to get to work, old friend.