Chapter Text
The Vicar Humbletoes is out of healing potions and gods’ given spells when he finds a wizard in a bush.
Well, he thinks it’s a wizard. The robes the man wears are tattered and torn, which is to be expected in the immediate aftermath of the Absolute Crisis, but they still look like the sort of robes a wizard would wear: black, lined with runes in the embroidery, impractical.
The man is tucked underneath a bush just beside the Eastern Gate between Rivington and the rest of the world beyond Baldur’s Gate. The vicar almost didn’t notice him, tired from a long day of finding and assisting injured souls that had been caught in the aftermath of a conflict much bigger than themselves. Plus, it was getting dark. But the glint of something metallic in the bush had caught Humbletoes’ eye. Then he’d spotted the man’s bare, ash-covered feet, followed by the rest of him.
Humbletoes isn’t very strong or very big, even for a gnome, but the man in the bush isn’t very big for a human. He seems to be dangerously thin, in fact. The vicar manages to wiggle the man out from under the bush with some effort and a few choice words muttered under his breath that he decides the gods won’t hold against him. As he lays the human gently across the ground, he notices again the glint that first caught his eye in the bush. He digs through the branches and retrieves from the foliage a very long staff. At the top of the staff is a globe, clenched in the talons of a golden dragon’s claw.
Yes, this man is surely a wizard. They’re fond of flashy things like that.
Humbletoes gingerly places the staff down onto the ground beside the wizard. Sometimes staffs are particular about who handles them, and the vicar isn’t really interested in learning more about this staff. Something about it makes him feel watched.
The wizard is breathing, his eyes are closed, and it’s Humbletoes’ professional opinion that the man could have used a bath many tendays ago. The blood and ash caked on his body is dry and visibly too old to be leftover by the chaos of the Absolute Crisis, and he stinks like a man who hasn’t seen civilization in a long, long while.
His robes really are ruined, though. It honestly looks like a dragon tore through them. They hang in tatters like black ribbons over his emaciated body.
Yes, the man needs a bath, some clothes, and something to eat. That, and possibly some healing, though Humbletoes doesn’t see any signs of injury, which is perhaps the most curious thing about all this.
Humbletoes takes the water skin off his belt and puts some water in his palm, waiting for it to warm a little, then he wets the man’s brow. This is enough to wake him. The wizard opens his eyes and stares up at Humbletoes wildly. They’re big, round eyes, and the irises are a very dark brown—almost black. The look in them is bright and aware.
The Vicar Humbletoes also notices something god-touched lurking in those eyes, but he can’t say by which god the man has been touched, or why.
Very curious. Usually, he can tell. The gods often let him see such things.
“Good evening, saer. I have some water. Can you sit up to drink it?”
The wizard looks at the water skin in Humbletoes’ hand with an odd, searching look. His brow furrows.
Oh, dear. It’s possible that this man hit his head pretty badly. Or one of those mindflayers got to him and made a snack of his senses.
Speaking more slowly, Humbletoes asks again, “Can you sit up, saer?”
He reaches out a hand, an offer to assist.
The wizard declines to take Humbeltoes’ hand, but he does sit up. The vicar offers him the water skin, which is regarded with suspicion, but taken. Whispering something under his breath, the wizard appears to be casting a spell—but then he stops and frowns deeply, looking into the water skin as if it has offended him greatly.
“Drink, saer. It’s only water,” the vicar says in what he hopes is an encouraging and nonthreatening tone.
The wizard speaks; his tone is soft, though there’s noticable acid in his words, and the language is completely incomprehensible to Humbletoes.
Ah, that explains a few things.
The vicar hums, and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, saer. I don’t understand.” Then he points to the water skin. “Water,” he says, and mimes a drinking motion.
The wizard looks again at the water, clears his throat, and takes a small and careful sip.
Humbletoes nods approvingly. “Good.”
With his other hand, the wizard gropes around without really looking until his fingers find his staff. He then gives the water back and begins to stand.
Humbletoes offers again to help, but the wizard refuses, and pulls himself up with the assist of his staff. He breathes heavily when he does, and Humbletoes worries he’ll fall over or float away with a small gust of wind. Through sheer stubbornness, perhaps, the wizard remains standing, and he peers down at Humbletoes.
There are a lot of questions the vicar would like to ask, and the wizard probably has twice as many. Unfortunately, that will have to wait.
But they should try introductions, at least. Knowing names would help.
“I’m the Vicar Humbletoes,” he says, placing his hand on his chest and speaking with clear, measured enunciation on each of his syllables.
Something about the introduction makes the wizard… smile? Laugh? His lips twitch and his breath catches on a wheeze. Oh, dear, it really looks like he might fall over. Humbletoes offers him the water skin again, which this time the wizard accepts without hesitation and drinks.
The wizard clears his throat and raises the skin. “Water?” He says, like a question, and the word sounds awkward on his tongue, but it’s said correctly.
“Yes!” Humbletoes says, pleased. “That is water.”
The man’s senses seem intact, at least! That’s good, and will probably make certain things easier.
The wizard hands Humbletoes back the skin, then places his hand on his chest.
“Raistlin,” the wizard says.
Humbletoes bows his head. “An honor to meet you, Raistlin.”
The wizard looks relieved, as if a weight has come off his shoulders. Raistlin sags and leans too heavily on his staff. He really needs a place to lie down.
“Come, saer,” the vicar says, continuing to speak his words slowly, and he waves his hand as a sign Raistlin should follow after him. “I know a safe place. Let’s get you a bed and a bath.”
The Ilmater Temple of Rivington is the closest possible sanctuary that can be trusted with an odd refugee like this, and Sister Yannis doesn’t turn away anyone brought to her doorstep by the vicar. She knows better than to question Humbletoes’ intuition about these sorts of mysteries. It’s Vicar Humbletoes professional opinion that there is something important about this man—this ‘Raistlin.’ The gods have touched the wizard in some way, and the vicar, always their loyal servant, is going to make sure Raistlin makes it safely to wherever the gods need him to go next.
Raistlin makes a small noise in his throat—it sounds a bit like a peeved cat—but he takes a careful step with one of his bare feet, then another. The movement appears to take great effort, but he doesn’t collapse, and he refuses, again, any offer of help.
The wizard points, instead, at one of the bushes nearby. “That is?” Raistlin demands.
It takes Humbletoes a moment to understand what Raistlin means. “The bush?” he asks
That seems to satisfy Raistlin. “That is the bush,” Raistlin mutters to himself.
Right. This is a wizard Humbletoes is dealing with, and one thing a wizard can’t stand is not knowing.
“That is?” Raistlin demands again, pointing this time to his own staff.
Oh, dear. It’s going to be a long walk, Humbletoes can tell. May the gods grant him patience.