Aravelle looked at Astaroth with a mix of amusement and curiosity.
"Tell me, young man. What do you feel when you look at me?"
Astaroth eyed him up and down and even tried reading his mana signature. But nothing came up.
Which was unusual, given he knew this man was a mage. He expanded his scope, englobing the room with his sense, but still nothing.
"Strangely, nothing. But I assume that since you come from a time that predates the Ash Elves, and that I have noticed magic seems to lengthen life span, you are far from just forty years old.
"Also, I was told that the demon war was thousands of years ago. Now. I wonder why I saw Aberon there. Weren't you a few hundred years old?" he asked, spinning his head to Aberon.
Aberon chuckled.
"Yeah, a few hundred years old. Somewhere around thirty hundred. I've stopped counting. But you couldn't fathom the age of Sir Aravelle."
Astaroth frowned at the 'Sir'. Aberon was never this polite.
