Azwel does realise he's going to have to clean up those chips and the spilt vinegar, but he'll get to that in a moment. He's fascinated by how his own magickal senses try to simultaneously recoil from and reach out to this being. How her presence pulls at the sense that usually tells him where astral fissures will appear and twists it. He knows he should flee. But he doesn't. Not even when she draws closer.

He does, at least, stand.

"I don't really know, now," he says, fighting to keep his mind focussed. "I'm... displaced from my homeworld. My former life didn't.... leave much of a possibility for it."