Someone is going to either die or be killed here and shockingly the Master would prefer that didn't happen. Not yet, anyway. He's made mental notes about the abilities of the two, with warning labels about Qilby and portals, and Apollo and guns. He wonders how much being drunk changed her combat ability.

Now if she could only learn to shut her damn mouth, this whole incident could maybe be swept under a rug.

He unfolds from his spot in one swift motion, canting his head to glare in Qilby's direction, which happens to also get Deathwing in there, but it's quick and fleeting.

Hope the show was nice for you, bastard of a dragon.

The Master hops from his rock, bone from the bear leg dangling from a hand, and strolls towards Apollo. If she dies from a concussion or something equally stupid, he's going to be pissed. She's going to be a star pawn one day, Qilby, please don't ruin that.

Rude.

He offers the dog the remnants of his bear in echo of their first meeting. He's not here to hurt your moronic master, pooch. "So what have we learned? Don't get drunk at parties? Though I loved the dinner and a show." He rolls his eyes. Come on, Apollo, keep walking and don't talk to Qilby any further.