"In times like these, I daresay people tend to look for lasting love," he murmurs. The short-lived always panic when they realize that they could die any day and fade into obscurity, with no heirs or anything of worth left behind. Qilby can't imagine it, but not for lack of many hours upon hours spent trying. He supposes for all its shortcomings, his situation is better -- at least he can see everyone else for what they really are. Just generations upon generations of little crawling things, totally inconsequential in the scope of the Krosmoz.

And here he has someone whose chief concern in life, as far as he can tell, is finding someone to screw. It feels good having his thoughts justified sometimes.

"Think about it then," he says as the elf comes over with a second bottle. Qilby takes it this time, refilling Apollo's cup for her and after a moment, pouring himself a little. He holds it up, toasting her. "To-- potential partnerships?"