"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."