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The saga of Heroes

The magicians in the room stirred, still rubbing butts and elbows on the chairs of ivory while staring at the closed door.

Clarion remained aloof, hidden in the shadows near the wall. He took advantage of the break to roll up the sleeves of his red and blue uniform he wore.

He was sweating: the windows closed made the air muggy and stale and the incense nauseated him, but probably had a better smell than the smell that covered. Those magicians were locked in there for hours; they ate, drank and quarreled long.

An old wizard looked at him and raised his glass. Clarion took a jug and came to fill it, then bowed his head.

"The Plot Arcana is going through a bad time, boy," the old wizard fingers sank into the Clarion arm, "but you should not serve the Council of Sages without a dress in your size."

"I'm sorry. I will provide as soon as possible. "They looked for a few moments. The wizard blinked, then belched: the breath smelled of sour wine. Clarion held his disgust, staring at the old man muttered angrily.

The door opened.

Looks embarrassed and silence greeted the man who entered the room: you could even hear the rustle of the newcomer's tunic.

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