There's a certain, unremarkable young man who deserves a little bit of a narrative. His name was Rotbert.

Rotbert joined the plague doctors after hearing the stories about Giradin and his exploits. He came to Melcher Fitz while Giradin was still on his journey to Rome to be tested as a saint.

Melcher Fitz looked this young man over, noting that he was frail, having arms so thin Fitz feared they might snap in two if he tried to lift anything too heavy. His scraggly facial hair spoke to one who couldn't keep his hands still, having uneven patches of beard in odd places. His eyes were wide and hopeful, the kinds of eyes one might expect to see on a child's face, but never on a grown man's. His chipper voice gave away his naivete.

Whether out of compassion or annoyance is unclear, but Melcher Fitz assigned this young man to work as a servant in the monastery. Fitz told him that if he proved himself a loyal and true servant, one day he could don the uniform and work in the field.

For the first few months, Rotbert poured his heart and soul into his work. He'd listen for the sound of approaching horses and rush out to take the reins and lead them to the stables once the doctors had dismounted. He'd spend hours a day in the washroom, scrubbing down the plague doctor uniforms and dreaming of the day that one of those uniforms would be his own.

He took over other servants' shifts, and washed dishes when it was not his turn.

After a month of this, though, he started listening to the stories the new plague doctors told when they come back. They described the bloody business that was their trade, told of their disgust at some of the things they'd seen, and spoke all too often about the cruelty and madness of Melcher Fitz.

Three separate stories wherein plague doctors simply found someone who was hiding their plague symptoms, which led to the Crows executing and burning this dishonest peasant, destroyed all of young Rotbert's enthusiasm for the idea of becoming a plague doctor. From then on, he barely spent any time on his chores. He skipped out on his duties, gave the uniforms the bare minimum scrubbing, and could often be heard grumbling to himself whenever he led horses to the stables.

On the night that St. Giradin returned, his faith had been all but lost. Though all the others in the monastery seemed to view St. Giradin with the utmost reverence and respect. But, by then, Rotbert was sure these people would believe anyone or anything was holy just to break some of the depressing monotony of their world.

That night he served drinks to the Templars and plague doctors alike. Though he'd never admit it, I'm almost certain he spat in at least one of those drinks. His heart had turned bitter and cold, and he hardly saw the point in anything anymore.

After the gathering was over, and those in the monastery started seeking places to sleep, it was the job of the monastery's servants to clean up the mess. Rotbert, eager for an opportunity to get out of the chores he'd come to loathe, walked out toward the outhouse. His plan had been to slip in there, do his business, and then slip out to the stables where he'd hide until his fellows were done with the work.

But his shoes stuck to something on the ground, and something warm leaked through the hole in his sole.

When he cast his eyes down his heart stopped at the pair of eyes staring up at him.

And the lifeless body to which those eyes were attached.

And the pool of blood in which the dead Moor laid.

Rotbert was the one who found Mujahid dead that night, and his scream awoke everyone in the monastery.