With a sharp CRACK of displaced air, a figure tumbled out of a swirling blue portal, landing somewhat ungracefully on the marble balcony.
It was a man in his mid-thirties, dressed in the heavy, formal, highly decorated robes of a Senior Tower Envoy.
He possessed a receding hairline, a deeply ingrained expression of chronic, ulcer-inducing stress, and he was currently clutching a glowing, magical clipboard against his chest as if it were a shield.
"Grandmaster Roan!" the envoy gasped, frantically adjusting his crooked spectacles, scrambling to his feet.
Roan did not turn around.
He merely sighed, the tragic, romantic atmosphere instantly ruined.
