"What are you preventing?" Lancelot had already grasped the hilt of Frostslash, "Preventing us from failing?"
"No, that's not it," the Elf sighed, "Preventing you from succeeding. It would be problematic if the Eye of Sarizdon were to return safely to Mogrondale City after I went through so much trouble to take it away."
Everyone was stunned by the implications of these words. The speaker was a Lord of Withering, and a Mogrondale City devoid of commercial value clearly did not align with his interests.
Elothysia stared at the Elf, transformed by the powers of the Abyss, her expression shifting from suspicion to astonishment. A golden glow illuminated her sword blade as she pointed at her opponent and asked loudly,
"You! Why do you reek of Barto's otherworldly scent?"
"Oh, cool it, sweetheart," the Elf chuckled mischievously, "If you can become a Paladin, why can't I serve the Bartez? It seems neither of us is particularly loyal to our own race."
