RAFEL'S ROOMMATE didn't return that night.
It was late morning and Rafel pushed back his bedchamber drapes as he sipped on warm tea and watched the seagulls in sky through his floor-to-ceiling looking-glass. If the turnout last night at the theater was any indication, Percival had probably hit the honeypot with a bunch of groupies from the play.
Certain as the mana-charge in a Druid Meister's staff was the love of young girls for stars on the stage, especially if he was darned fine as Percival. Rafel took a calming finishing gulp of his tea and floated the mug to his bedside table behind by a fresh crimson aura.
It was called [Red Rush Rakrä]. Rakrä, after the ancient Latviann art of telekinesis among the monks that lived up in the Alps.
The teacup was enveloped in a wine-colored shade as it hovered smoothly for the top of the drawers and settled down of its own accord.