and so they tell me that you ain't my friend; (OPEN)

[psychice]

Who: Blacksworn & other inhabitants of Obsidian Sanctum.
What: We're having a luau, losers.
Where: Obsidian Sanctum.
When: July 11.
Warnings: Drinking, probably some nudity considering who all is going to be there, and maybe Apollo???

When it came to schmoozing and boozing, Emma was quite certain that most of her fellow Blacksworn knew how to conduct themselves properly with the right environment. If they were as like-minded as her as she's been made to believe, then it was possible they were just waiting for the opportunity to present itself. Not that the Obsidian Sanctum could host any kind of special occasion with the rough terrain, but conjuring miracles out of nothing wasn't new to this Blacksworn.

As a newcomer who wasn't greeted by her peers when she arrived (rude of them, she thought), Emma informed anyone who crossed paths with her that there was to be a party this evening and they were to attend. While most of the dragonkin didn't seem enthused over the news, she cared little for what the lot of lizards thought and took to making arrangements herself. Not that she would be alone in this venture... hopefully. Bringing it up to the other Blacksworn was her way of telling them to gear up and come with something lest her opinion of them would sour more.

By time evening comes around, an open space of the sanctum has been decorated for a party complete with a bonfire and is that a table that's been formed out of rock? Interesting use of the new abilities bestowed upon her with a touch of her own diamond hands shaping the rest. Resting on the table alongside the food are brightly colored necklaces made of orange blossoms and beads, likely from a trade with one of the villages nearby. Yes, those are leis for anyone who might have actually heard of them prior to Azeroth and is that liquor of some kind? There's probably some other neat stuff around thanks to the other Blacksworn who know how to make a party rock and for the ones that don't, it's time they learned.

{ OOC | This is a free for all bring your own stuff and mingle for the most antisocial sanctum there is. Make your own top levels, do whatever seems reasonable. If you need an excuse to attend, Emma could have dragged your character there. }

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[traitre]

He watches Apollo go, using her mutt for support, and immediately regrets his decision. The miserable woman can barely stand! If he'd just have stalled a little longer, waited until she'd bled out just a little bit more... It might not be too late. Taking her out now might even be the sort of trick the Black Flight would approve of. That smirk of hers is what almost does it too, his jaw stiffening when he sees it, heat rising to the surface of his face--

But again, it's that nagging voice in some corner of his mind -- what if you're not quick enough? -- that sets his hand to trembling again and for the second time today he backs down. He's not sure what's worse: the thought of death, or the fact that thinking about it turns his stomach so much. Too disgusted with himself for a cutting remark or comeback, he wordlessly gets to his feet and brushes himself off (little good it does him and his thoroughly ruined clothing.)

It must be some kind of sick joke. His immortality -- which he'd spent generations of despairingly empty life cycles cursing -- is something he actually finds himself missing here. Qilby glances up at Deathwing again, searching the great reptilian face for a sign of any sort of reaction to how things turned out. This is all the more reason to accelerate his research, find a shortcut back to that power he's accustomed (entitled) to. But if he's harmed his chances today...

[irritating]

Still using Metalhead as support (though trying her best to cover up the fact that she kind of feels like collapsing instead), she keeps herself steady as she watches Qilby rise to his feet. She may have lowered her defenses now that they've agreed to stop fighting and put some distance between them, but that doesn't mean she's ready to take her eyes off him. She's ended a fight unfairly herself enough times to know not to do that.

She kind of expects some sort of remark out of him though, so she finds herself a little surprised when he says nothing. But maybe he's just a sore loser, she thinks, and maybe he's too annoyed to even talk to her.

And then he's not even looking at her anymore - he's looking at Deathwing, and Apollo can't help but roll her eyes and let out a short little laugh that sounds like a mix of amusement and some disbelief. "What," She begins, holding herself up a little straighter now that she's had time to regain most of her balance and composure. "You waitin' for him to call it? Giveya a score? Or doya just wanna make sure he saw you lose?"

[traitre]

Nothing. He's not sure what he expected, but it certainly wasn't approval. Not anything good. Perhaps it's best he doesn't look for a reaction now.

The woman's yelling something at him now. He does his best not to pay attention to her actual words, but it's to no avail -- they drill through his skull, doing absolutely nothing for his growing headache. Slowly, he tilts his head back down and around to fix her with a withering stare, lip curled.

"You've got a little, aah--" Arching a brow, he motions at his forehead. That blood trickling down her face. "...Right here. Must've slipped and cracked that big head of yours on a rock back there."

In other words: go ahead and gloat. It's all just more tinder to fuel a grudge -- one he suspects he'll be nursing for a long while now.

*slips back in*

[beholdthedrums]

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.

[irritating]

Apollo raises her hand and pokes at her forehead at the comment, her fingers coming away bloody. Right, that.

"Slipped?" She asks, barely holding back incredulous laughter. It's probably a good thing that the Master decides to intervene when he does, because Apollo is very possibly determined (stupid) enough to keep on talking when she should just walk away.

"Parties ain't parties without gettin' drunk, c'mon, nobody learned that lesson." She waves a dismissive hand at him, that totally isn't the lesson to learn here. Besides, as far as she's concerned, she actually had a reason for this, and this wasn't just random, senseless violence. In any case, with the Master's appearance here, she seems to be ready to back off already. Possibly because staring down at Metalhead, chewing and chomping away at his new treat, redirects her thought process from violence to eating.

"I'd ask if y'got any food for me too, but you don't ever fuckin' roast anythin' before you eat it." A heavy, over dramatic sigh. "Fuck it, maybe there's some roasted boar left. C'mon, Metalhead."

[traitre]

Qilby watches the pair quietly, trying to figure out what exactly he's seeing here. Are the two already allies, or is this the Master's way of declaring the side he's taking? When the other man looks over his way, he returns the glare with a flat, unimpressed stare. Certainly isn't the first time someone's thrown in their lot with the wrong team, against him-- but things have a way of working out in the end, however long it takes. He always makes damn well sure of that.

He doesn't bother with parting words (the hitch in his breath coming from what feels like a literal dent in his ribcage making it a chore simply to stand around like this, much less speak) and so after one last, long calculating look at the two of them, he tosses up one last portal and leaves.