Storm of Prophecy: Book 1, Dark Awakening by Michael Von Werner, Felix Diroma Read Free Book Online Page A

expected since he was Vincent’s supervisor for his duties regarding The Crafters’ Vault. A number of things stored in there were made by him, but most were made by others in past centuries. Regardless, he was in charge of instruction for those whose gift it was to craft and construct objects fused with magical properties. As a high ranking wizard master within Gadrale International Mage Academy, Clemens did not appear at all like one would expect. Instead of wizards’ robes, he wore clothing far more reminiscent of a blacksmith: dirty, faded blue pants; tan leather boots; a white apron smeared in places with black grime; and a loose brown leather shirt underneath with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his muscular, hairy forearms. He appeared middle-aged, young for a master, and had graying dark hair on his head and on his thick full beard. He was balding on the top with hair receding from the front and corner edges. A strong, and portly individual, Clemens often seemed intimidating to others. He was fairly strict, had a loud, deep voice, and seemed overbearing, yet Vincent knew him to be a fair man. At the moment, Master Clemens’ brown eyes looked on eagerly toward him with a serious expression on his face, but occasionally his eyes darted around toward others in the room. What he felt about Vincent’s performance, Vincent couldn’t guess at but feared the worst.
    Grandmaster Treyfon was obviously here in an official capacity. His old deep-blue eyes had the strange quality of all Elves: they seemed pointy even though the eyes themselves were round. Currently they were pointed at Vincent. His face was slightly wide, and his eyes were particularly large and round, more so than other Elves much less Humans, and were a distinct feature of his face that set it apart from others, making him easy to recognize. His straight gray hair ran down the sides of his head and was parted by his pointy ears before it reached his shoulders. His gray hair and slightly wrinkled face, more than anything, was a profound symbol of veneration since Elves were extremely long-lived, often living for centuries or even many millennia before dying in an accident or other conflict. They were rarely culled purely by the natural force of time.
    The fact that his hair was gray meant he had lived for countless thousands of years. It was well known to everyone at the academy that Treyfon had spent the majority of this time learning all there was to know about every plant in existence and honing beyond mastery the skills of his gift, botanical magic, to the point of complete proficiency. None could hope to match his level of skill or intimate knowledge regarding the use of plant life. This magical discipline might seem harmless enough, but Vincent knew that deadly, ravenous plants shooting up out of the ground, growing at an incredible rate and devouring all that crossed their path, were not something to be laughed at. Because of his incredible wisdom, age, ingenuity, and power, he had long ago been chosen to hold the position of Grandmaster within the international mage academy of Gadrale Keep. More than these qualities though, he had a keen sense of leadership, problem-solving, and was a fine negotiator in times of dispute. Regardless of the drab tan robes he wore, everyone held the deepest respect for him.
    Master Anthony, an old Human in blue wizards’ robes, was Dean of the Atmomancy Department and in many ways no less venerable. His white hair was short and his face had a short, neatly-trimmed white beard along with one or two more wrinkles than Treyfon’s. Astrology, the heavens, weather, wind, and lightning were his domain, and he could command the latter three with ease and read the former two with great insight, Vincent had been told. Though he might look a little older than Treyfon, he was in actuality a great deal younger. Atmomancy was nothing to laugh at either, and Vincent suspected that the woman who had thrown him into the wall with