He was powerful, once. Kings would come to him on bended knee to prosper their wars. He would bless their heads, their armor, their swords, even their mounts, before they rode off to victory. Those that failed never asked for a refund. It was understood: if a Prince failed even given every advantage, he wasn’t meant to win.
Now it was the wizard who was brought low. He hadn’t been paid to cast a war spell in over a century. Now he sat in a basement shop waiting for superstitious slackers to pay him a pittance to bless their guitars.