warforged | he will sell your soul to the grave [closed to blacksworn]

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he will sell your soul to the grave [closed to blacksworn]

Who: The Master, blacksworn
What: The Master's collecting data from his flightmates about who knows who from what flight. And hey, he'll even share the info with everyone! ...if they care. And if they actually tell him anything.
Where: Obsidian Sanctum
When: June 12th I guess lol.
Warnings \o_O/

Note: To make things easier ~~for me~~, he's having these convos one on one!

Look, none of them are friends, and every one of them has their own agenda. If one of the blacksworn hadn't realized this yet, they were either new, or a moron. But hey, maybe they should at least make use of each other, right? Pool together some semblance of resources to appease their dragon overlord, and continue on their deceitful ways, preferably with other flights first, and each other second.

Sounds reasonable? One can only hope.

So the Master's seeking out his fellow 'sworn, approaching each more or less the same. "For the benefit of everyone living in this lovely firepit, I thought it was high-time we get a tally of our resources; and by resources, I mean people we know in other flights. Ideally ones who we knew before Azeroth, and not new acquaintances. Why? So we know who we can make use of in other flights."

Of course "make use" could be to get help from another flight, or to ruin them from the inside out. It's completely sensible.

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"Before Azeroth."

Her echo betrays her interest; Riven had been ready to let the Master scheme (or, whatever) in peace, but then he just had to go and mention something like that, didn't he? She hesitates to ask it as a question proper. She already dislikes the way his ideas are headed. (Make use of? More like take advantage of...)

Riven clears her throat. "You're not alone here?" She has to know more.

Always a pleasure to interact with her "delightful" presence.

"Yes." He doesn't see the harm in telling her. "His name is the Doctor. He's part of bronze."

She'd have to try exceptionally hard to use the Doctor against him, as the likelihood of him caring is slim; and he doubts the Doctor would tell her much about him.

"The Doctor. Does everyone only go by titles in your world, not names?"

It sounds odd, but not unheard of. Every champion has their own designation as well, even if they never get used in practice. She has no reason to expect that the Master has no true name besides, once you discount the fact that nothing else seems logical where he's from. "And is he a friend or foe? Only sharing a world doesn't mean much."

He shrugs. "Not all, but it's a bit of a quirk." Yeah, Gallifrey is weird, alright. Just look at their typical fashion (not that Azeroth is a lot better). "He's..." Normally he wouldn't associate the world "friend" with the Doctor, but in this context he lets it slide. "A bit of both, I suppose." It's Complicated is putting it mildly.

Both. That's an answer that makes her eyebrows go up. Riven purses her lips, unimpressed with the response but also lacking any contribution that would show his up.

Well. "If it's that vague, he could just as easily be a disadvantage... nothing is stopping other flights from making use of us in return."

The thought of the Doctor destroying the blackflight from the inside out makes him laugh delightfully. Wouldn't that be something!

"No, no, my dear. If anything he'd think he could 'make us better.'" He is named "the Doctor" after all, though the Master is still trying to get a handle on this newer regeneration.

"Besides, I don't believe he'll be a thorn in my side for quite a long while, and even then it won't be a problem." And if it, well, he'll deal with it himself.

The laugh makes her wrinkle her nose. It's a legitimate concern, alright-- nevermind that she knows nothing of the Doctor, to pass that sort of judgement on him.

"You sound so sure of things." Her... not so much. Riven shifts her weight back, folding her arms. No sense in arguing with him on that front, even if she does badly want to disagree. "And has anyone else come forward with a-- 'resource?'"

"That's because I am." Obviously. He knows how to handle the Doctor, more or less. Maybe not this regeneration quite yet, but he's still the Doctor. How much could that have changed? "No, but to be fair... we are quite spread about. Though Apollo did mention knowing some people in other flights." Sure she didn't mention it so that the Master could use them, but that's besides the point.

"Your confidence will be the death of you. Your deceptions will." The Master's attitude, his plans are getting to her-- Riven's tone is as sharp as her sword and equally unforgiving. She can see how it all unfolds (and most likely in his favor to boot) and, well.

She doesn't like it. She even takes a step forward, unconsciously, not meaning to be this aggressive, but-- "I can only hope it comes sooner than later."

If it makes her feel any better, his confidence does slip as she approaches him. He slides back a step, but he catches himself and now he's slid into the defenses. Shadow and Fire are at his fingertips before he even thinks about it.

The last thing they should probably do is have a fight within their own sanctum, but he will not let a damn woman push him around. He will attack her if she approaches him further.

"In a rush, dear?" he sneers. "Maybe you should just take me out yourself. Get it over with! The good little dragon soldier."

It does, if only for a moment. Her hands have balled into fists, and she seems right ready to clock the Master there, in the middle of the Sanctum, in front of all the whelps--

She doesn't, if only because there's a part of her chiding the rest. Surion wouldn't appreciate it. And Deathwing-- who's to say what he thinks, really? Riven sees the fire on the Master's hands, and that seals it. She has no desire to make this the hill she dies on.

Today. "You aren't worth the effort," she spits, but it's disingenuous; only half true at best. If Noxus hadn't been filled with his type, if she didn't know where this ended, maybe she could say it in all earnesty.

Her scowl only deepens as she adds on a friendly warning: "Watch your step, Master."

He snarls and steps back towards her before he catches himself and snuffs out the flames. Part of him is disappointed that she won't fight him, but even he isn't suicidal enough to take her on here and now. He wants to tear her apart but he isn't sure that he'd win.

"You'll wish you had," he sneers at her, spit on his lips. If she does have allies, he'll find them. He'll take them apart and make sure that she knows it's because she refused to work with him in this.

Qilby hasn't been spending much time in the Sanctum these past few weeks.

Part of the reason is to keep an eye on things are progressing in Silverglen. Although his efforts had been met with much initial success, he'd noticed the elves beginning to warm up to the other flights again as of late-- which (as he'd noted, to his chagrin) could only mean one thing.

That, and the village is simply more comfortable than the sanctum with all its sharp rocks and bubbling lava pits and surly dragons. If it's dark outside and he squints, it even seems almost... Eliatropic. Not that it's in his nature to be homesick-- but even someone like him can enjoy the comforts of home.

And then lastly, it's to avoid this. His dubious allies. Qilby knows this one (even if he doesn't know his name) and he certainly knows that he's not one to be trusted. Which, to be fair, can be said for just about anyone in their flight... But it doesn't make it any less irritating.

"You'll be 'making use' of no one if this is as subtle as you can manage to be," he says with a withering look.

Still. The fact that he doesn't leave or otherwise immediately end the conversation there means that Qilby's at least a little intrigued.

"Well by all means, there's a guy in the bronzeflight named 'the Doctor.' Make use of him all you want!"

The Master laughs, barely disturbed by Qilby. Really, it's all fun and games, and wouldn't it be fun if someone did lose an eye? As long as it isn't the Master himself, of course.

"You can say I know him from my..." the Master licks his lips, "universe. Messing with his head is all sorts of fun."

The man's utterly mad, he eventually decides. That's the only explanation. Talking to a lunatic wouldn't necessarily be disturbing on its own, but it's when Qilby remembers that he's wished for this before -- this complete carelessness and freedom to act however he wants to -- that he realizes that it's insanity. Insanity was what he wanted.

He might've got his wish too, if the Legion hadn't interrupted his confrontation with the king back on his old world -- being sentenced to ten thousand years of solitude would've certainly done the trick. The thought turns his stomach a little.

"The Bronze are a non-entity at this point," he replies matter-of-factly, quashing any thought of what might've been. "Of as much use to me as air is to a fish.

"The other three are the dangerous ones. The Blues, especially." A dismissive little wave of his hand. "Let me know when you intend to 'mess with' any of their heads."

The Master's insanity may as well be tangible. Something for all to feast upon.

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his robe. There's something satisfying about knowing Qibly doesn't intend to screw with the Doctor anytime soon, even if the Master "offered" it. Maybe he's a bit territorial.

"I have yet to encounter any of the blues." As far as he knows, anyway. He hasn't made it a habit to ask what flight people are, "Though Apollo," he rolls his eyes, "apparently knows one of them." May be useful, but likely won't.

He raises a brow, looking more mentally held together than he had been seconds ago. The way Qibly phrases his last sentence triggers a quiet curiosity in his mind, an interested rumble beneath the drums.

"What do you know of them?"

"I know that they have an eliatrope like me among them," Qilby replies simply, as if the fact that there's another person like him in the other flight is all the answer he needs to give. Not that Yugo possesses even a fraction of the skill that he does -- but even a barely-adolescent eliatrope is miles above the rest of the rabble here. If any of the Dragonsworn can be remotely considered a threat, it's the boy king.

"They are a smaller flight like ours," he concedes, "But we can't all be like the Reds, I suppose." Simply crawling with off-worlders, that flight is. Something about their creed just calls out to would-be saviors like a corpse attracts flies.

"But the similarities end there. Where we succeeded with the elves, they languished," he says, smiling. His smiles always make him seem as if he's laughing at some joke that only he knows the punchline to -- the punchline in this case being it was him, he did it, he's the reason the other flights struggled while he succeeded and there's not a thing they can do about it. Qilby shrugs lightly. "Their jealousy -- and enmity -- is only natural."

"'Eliatrope'?" he repeats. "Is that your species?" Or was it a different classification?

He listens, focused, to the rest of what Qibly has to say, nodding occasionally here and there. "Ah, but with such a large flight, it's easier to find loose stones among them. They can't all be one big happy family, certainly not in the way their Aspect wants." Just thinking about Alexstrasza's ideals again makes him ill.

The blueflight sounds interesting. Jealousy, enmity... all faults. Faults that are usable. It fits into what he wants. Why should the blackflight outright attack the other flights when they can just move the right piece of the puzzle and cause disorder within the flights themselves, at the right time? And all they have to do is sit back and watch as the flight implodes from the inside, out.

Qilby nods. Funny, normally you can't talk to him for longer than five minutes without getting at least the abridged history and accomplishments of his race-- but he supposes he's had other things to worry about here.

"Perhaps not, but the same could be said of the rest of us. You're apt to find flight-traitors anywhere." How many are there among the Blacks alone? Sure, you wouldn't see any of them defect in favor of the other four, but there are precious few people here he'd consider truly loyal to Deathwing. Himself included, of course.

"I would not yet worry about the people whose motives we can't predict-- but instead focus on those we can." On one hand, Yugo's presence here is an annoyance. On the other, the boy's thought processes are simple, transparent: he'll never be a variable to consider. He'll always react the way Qilby plans him to. If one of his brothers has to be here, he prefer it be him.

Qilby cants his head. "Have you... Experimented much with the abilities you've been granted since coming here?"

Okay, that was true. He's mostly sure Apollo isn't stupid enough to betray him, given how their last conversation went. But Riven is too much of a Deathwing floozie, and the Master... well. The Master wouldn't necessarily betray everyone that's been dragged into this war.

Just Deathwing.

That's not a big deal, right?

"True, but their larger numbers make them more weak right now. There's no cohesion amongst them. Once they find it, they could pose a greater threat."

But he's interested on where Qilby's focus is right now, and that seems to be Blue. Contrary to popular belief, the Master is okay with "working with others" if it benefits his own plans in the long run. He can play multiple teams at the same time, easy.

"Perhaps I can keep an eye on the Blues. I don't see it interfering with my daily..." scheming, "grind at all."

He sighs. His new abilities are a bit of a sore spot. He wants to make sense of it all at once, but of course it doesn't work like that.

"Not as much as I wish I have been able to. I've only developed a fraction of understanding."

The sigh doesn't go unnoticed. Qilby can only imagine what it's like -- on one hand, he's a little disappointed not to have as many new gifts to experiment with as other Dragonsworn apparently do. On the other hand, being stripped of the power that make him an eliatrope is probably not the sort of new, novel experience he's looking for. When he thinks about it that way, he's content with the Blacksworn abilities they've all been granted. And speaking-of...

"If your aim is to set the flights against the natives and each other," he says, leaning in and lowering his voice to a conspiratorial almost-whisper. "You would do well to develop a bit more than that. Much can be accomplished wielding them with just a little imagination."

He straightens again, adjusting his glasses and flashing a small smile full of meaning. "I've been told the other flights have regained their good standing with the elves at Silverglen. It's unfortunate how they fell out of favor so suddenly, but I suppose it's as you said -- there're loose stones among them all."

"Oh, I intend to. Any potential 'actions' towards the other flights is a bit more of... let's say 'long-term goal.'"

Which is a lot better than his even further-planned goal of usurping Deathwing, but like hell is he ever telling anyone that, and never would he be stupid enough to mention it in this sanctum, where he's sure Deathwing hears all their murmurs as though they're rabbles of peasants.

"Well, at least any grandiose gesture. A few falling dominoes, however..."

At the mention of Silverglen, he snorts. "Yes, how strange of that."

He nods. Strange-- sure.

"I'm actually quite well-acquainted with some of the people said to have ruined their flights' reputations in the first place. Sadly, I've been around long enough to know that these are not usually, aah... One-time occurrences." There's that meaningful smile once again. He's getting at something here. "I can guarantee it'll happen again.

"Which means it falls to us as members of a flight that's doing well for itself to provide aid to these other-- struggling flights." He shakes his head no, answering an anticipated question. "Of course, I wouldn't ask any of us to provide this aid without due compensation. As long as we'd continue to have to make up for their weaker links, they would be obligated to answer to us. Only as long as that... Of course."

Is this sounding a little like extortion? Perish the thought. Qilby continues after a pause to let the implications sink in. "I'm prepared to deliver this offer to the other flight leaders, but what I need to know is if my fellow Blacksworn will be willing to cooperate."

He sees your bullshit, Qilby.

Still, he lets it slip in favor of the bigger picture. The concept of ruling, because that's what it is. An opportunity to rule over the other flights, even if it may be temporary. But it's more than that... It gives them (him) a way to learn about the other flights. Learn how petty they can be, how much they hate their lives when they need the blacksworn of all people to "help" them.

Qilby may have his own reasons for this. The Master doesn't care. Everyone has motives. Everyone has motives within motives. As long as they don't yet rub against the Master's intentions, then by all means.

And then when it all crumples around Qilby, well. The Master may just step back and watch.

"I see no reason why I can't cooperate. It's a solid plan." He smirks. "And those poor dragonsworn seem as though they will need it."

There's another itch in the back of his mind. Someone, living away from the sanctums, may find information like this useful. For the moment though, he'll keep it to himself.

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he will sell your soul to the grave [closed to blacksworn]

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whoaaaa late

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