In Bastion City, somewhere in between the planes, in Aravelle's hidden study, Astaroth was watching the Elven mage pace nervously, muttering to himself.
It had been half an hour since he started pacing, after Astaroth revealed he had perfect mana sense, and the man still looked like a nervous wreck.
"Aravelle? Hellooooo? Urgh… Please just let me leave…" Astaroth complained, still sitting on the soft-cushioned sofa.
He had watched Aravelle pace patiently for thirty minutes, but he was done. His patience only extended so far.
"Aravelle. I'm going to leave now. I've got shit to do. Call me when you snap out of your stupor, okay?"
But as he tried standing, a force suddenly locked him in place.
"Sit, boy. I'll be right there with you," Aravelle said, still pacing.
He then resumed his muttering to himself, his pacing unabated.
Astaroth looked at him with anger.
