Academy of Arts

Today, the waiting room of His Arch-Artist Chief Critic and Head of the Fine Arts League of Valor was crowded. In the far corner of the spacious room twain, ogre and a goblin, were quietly bickering. The first is thick, almost round; the second is skinny and fidgety. Such different characters were united only by a luxurious curled mustache under each nose and an easel, into which they in turn furiously poked with brushes.

- Green, with three handles!
- No, red, with one!
- I say - green!

The object of the dispute was probably the vase in the center of the waiting room. Blue. With two thin handles.

A dapperly dressed halfling squirmed modestly in a chair near the wall opposite the debaters. At his bare, furry feet lay a stack of paintings wrapped in parchment. Fingers, and not only on the hands, were stained with paints. The halfling shuddered frequently and glanced first at the ogre, then at the door with a huge sign 'CHIEF CRITIC'.

A storm was raging outside the door.

- Who draws like that?! No, well, I ask you, who draws like that?! – Judging by the thundering bass, the Chief Critic was a big personality. And temperamental. - I have lived in this damned city for fifty years and I remember very well that there is no house on this square with such balconies. No such! And what's that? I see that that's a tree! But why is it moving? Wind? What the hell is the wind in the picture? I've dealt with artists for forty years, and I dare to tell you, none of them painted moving pictures. And these were the best of the best. The best! So get out, get out of here!

The door swung open, a man of athletic build literally flew out of it. Following the man, a canvas flew out with the very ill-fated moving tree. The picture flew across the entire reception area and crashed into a red vase with three handles. The vase was shattered. The man strode over to his painting, picked it up, lifted his chin proudly, and walked out.

There was a shout from the waiting room:

- Well, mediocrities, who's next?!

The goblin grinned carnivorously at the halfling and waved a brush smeared with red paint in his direction. Crimson drops stained the already not the cleanest clothes of the furry-feet artist. It would seem that the goblin had inflicted a mortal wound on the enemy.

The Halfling swallowed hard, gathered up his paintings, and entered the study. No sooner had the door closed behind him than the cries sounded again:

- What is this?!! What is this daub, I ask you…?!!

In the evening, the same company met again in one of the taverns on the outskirts of Valor. All the artists sat at different tables and occasionally glared at each other from under their brows. The nature of these glances heavily hinted that, under other circumstances, goblins, humans, and halflings would have stabbed their opponents with steel rather than glances. But now the artists had one common sadness. All of them were creators who exchanged swords for brushes and arrived in the capital city in search of recognition. And all, as one, failed.

As the ogre and goblin emptied their third jug of wine for two, and the halfling finished munching on the fifth poult, a noise began to rise outside the bar. Soon the noise turned into voices. Very drunk and aggressive voices. The goblin and the ogre looked at each other, pulled out a canvas, an easel and brushes, and began to draw something intently. A human and a halfling followed their suit. And in the far, darkest corner of the tavern, a fish-man rustled with his waist bag. It was quite obvious that the huge, muscular native of the Ulmie empire was reaching for weapons to join the impending brawl.

Less than a minute later, a company of local ragamuffins burst into the tavern. The company was clearly looking for adventure and did not hide it. One of the ragamuffins immediately took out a short sword and slashed at the table closest to the entrance; the other took out a sling and began to spin it on the go, aiming either at the innkeeper, or at the shelf with bottles behind him.

When the brawlers were in the middle of the hall, something menacingly creaked over their heads. One of the ragamuffins raised his head to the ceiling and saw a huge chandelier with two dozen candles hanging on a thin rope. The ragamuffin's jaw dropped, because despite the alcoholic fog, he clearly remembered that when he and his comrades entered the tavern, there was no trace of a chandelier. He did not have a chance to be surprised for long - the rope broke and the chandelier collapsed down. One of the drunkards managed to jump aside, but a crossbow bolt immediately pierced his leg. The crossbow was removed from the wall by the fish-man, and where the weapon had been was a pale silhouette on the dirty bricks.

For a moment there was silence in the tavern. The innkeeper and assistants threw the drunkards out, removed the chandelier (terribly surprised at its presence) and returned to serving customers.

The silence was broken by an ogre. He beckoned in turn to the man, the halfling, and the submariner, and when they all approached, (looking sidelong at each other and now and then lowering his hands to his belt daggers) said in a conspiratorial tone:

- You know, colleagues, I'm not very pleased to admit it, but it seems that we can achieve recognition without the approval of lousy critics. If, - at this point the goblin grimaced slightly, - we will work together.

The artists looked at each other. All of them were very different, belonged to different nations, but, above all, each of them was a creator. So the skinny man who had been scolded by the Chief Critic this morning flopped down in an empty chair and shouted towards the bar:

- Hey, innkeeper, wine for me and for my new friends!

When the innkeeper brought an unsightly bottle, the man took a napkin, looked at the wine intently, made a couple of sketches, shaded, painted over ... and poured new comrades beautiful aged wine from an expensively decorated bottle.