"It wasn't a 'method of combat' until you started losing," he retorts peevishly, quickly falling into a sullen silence when her cur snarls in his face and drips frothy saliva on his already-bloodstained clothing. He pulls a face. First chance he gets, he's dissecting the hideous thing.

Qilby's tired, accumulating more aches and bruises with each passing minute, and not even sure the fight's worth whatever impression it's making on the dragon watching it. Does Apollo feel the same? If not, judging by her unsteady walk (not all of it's the drink, he suspects) she's getting there.

"You've seen how quick I can be with my portals. Call off your lapdog, or I drop both of you out a mile over the Sanctum." He sounds much more sure of the threat than he actually feels -- if his abilities are still this stunted after months here, who's to say he even can make a portal out that far? It used to be he could instantly travel from the deepest valleys to the highest mountaintops and hardly break a sweat, but now...

Best to bluff his way out. He glances once at Deathwing and back again. Quiet now, so that the others don't hear. "Believe me, you're worth more than carrion for the birds. What will it be?"