New Eden: Live to Play, Play to Live

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.

Not even with the king of Ash Elves.

So why now?

“It is of no import. I want you to focus on staying conscious. Can you do that for me?” Aravelle asked with a snide smile.

Astaroth raised an eyebrow.

“Staying conscious? What do y—”

*WOOONG!*

Before Astaroth could finish his sentence, a pressure hit his shoulders, making him feel like he was carrying the weight of the world.

His body was immediately drenched in cold sweats, as he bent forward, feeling like he was being crushed by a thousand moons.

Lifting his head with immense difficulty, Astaroth locked eyes with Aravelle. Instantly, his mind was assaulted by the roar of a hundred dragons.

Shegror, still taking hold inside him, shook in response, sending back a meek whimper of obedience.

Astaroth could feel his mind close to collapse, and it had barely been ten seconds.

‘What kind of fucking monster is this guy?!’ he shouted in his mind.

But just as he felt his eyes beginning to roll back, the pressure vanished as fast as it had appeared, sending him to his knees, gasping for air, and dripping sweat like he had run a marathon.

Aravelle burst out in laughter.

“MAH HA HA HA! I’m impressed, young Ash Elf. Very few can resist this presence for remotely as long as you did. Truly impressive.”

Astaroth raised his head, trying to grasp what kind of madman this Elf was. Next to him, still sitting on his sofa, Aberon was white like chalk, his body drenched in sweat as well.

The only difference between his state and Astaroth’s was that the old man was still seated.

“What the fuck was that?!” Astaroth spat between two gasps.

“That, young man, was the power of a progenitor of magic. Power that rivals lesser gods, and even some greater ones.”

Astaroth was still reeling from the roars, let alone the pressure of his magic power. But he piqued his curiosity.

“What the hell is a progenitor of magic? And how are equals to gods, if you still walk the mortal realm?”

Aravelle smiled at his questions.

“Curiosity is not a terrible trait to have. But you are asking questions that answer is irrelevant to you, for now. You should be asking what I’m doing here, or what I want.”

Aberon kept quiet, focusing on calming his jagged breathing and cooling off his burning mind.

After calming himself enough to stand, Astaroth dragged his ass back into the chair. His previous wary gaze on Aravelle was now coated with a healthy dose of fear.

Astaroth wasn’t the type to get scared easily. But this was a man that could end him in the snap of his fingers.

Aravelle grinned at him.

“Good. I like the look in your eyes. Fear is a good inhibitor to acting stupid. And from what I gather from my sources across the lands, you tend to act first, and think never.”

Astaroth gritted his teeth at the comment.

“Aren’t you afraid you sent the entire palace into a frenzy?” Astaroth asked, trying to take the subject off of him.

“With that? No risk. I limited the influence to this room. No one could have even felt a fragment of it. But you are still asking the wrong questions, lad.”

“Fine. I’ll ask the questions you want me to ask,” Astaroth spat.

He didn’t like when people controlled the entire discussion on their terms. It made him uncomfortable.

“Who are you? What do you want with me? And why are you in my kingdom and my palace?”

Aravelle smiled widely.

“Now we are going in the right direction.

“First off, who I am. My name is Aravelle of the Dragons. I am a progenitor of magic and the creator of Contract-type magic. I see you use the gifts I brought into this world well. That means we have more in common than you think.

“Second, what I want with you. The answer is nothing. I didn’t come here for you. I came here for a purpose much grander than your little person. A purpose which I shall reveal, in due time, but not now.

“And third,” Aravelle said, locking his eyes on Astaroth’s, taking a slight pause.

“Third, why I am here. But before I tell you that, let me set something straight with you. You may have earned the right to call these lands yours, in the eyes of the world. But this place was mine, long before you came to be, and will be mine again when you cease to be.

“I grew this tree myself, before the likes of your race even rebelled against the Elven kind. And with the power that went into it, it will stand here long after your life ends.”

Astaroth looked at him with a look of understanding.

Now he knew why he always felt magic inside the walls of the tree palace. He also understood how it had seemingly withheld the onslaught of time.

A tree this size needed nutrients, and to grow this size, and not eat the life out of the other plants and wildlife nearby, something had to feed it with enough energy to maintain itself.

But he was still unsure about the why, for Aravelle’s presence.