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

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

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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He's not even sure why the hell he should consider going. Honestly. This was the worst idea ever, and it wasn't even Apollo's for god sake, which meant Emma could be classed as a new moron.

Great.

Just great.

He could do the whole schmoozing-thing at the redsworn party. That was important, all an act to look good and search for interesting, useful people. This party is anything but. He may "get along" with some of the other blacksworn, but not enough to attend a party.

Wait.

He wonders if Riven will be there.

He wonders if she legitimately likes any of the people here.

Maybe he can piss her off.

So, the Master arrives to the party with a grin on his face and a goal in mind. He even brought a dead bear to the party (though most of the sanctum was probably sick of bear, and if anyone for some reason thought to look, the bear had zero "soul" left to it). And he puts on a lei despite the very thought making him hate himself a little.

Just please, tell him that Deathwing isn't showing up.

[Surion is very puzzled, but also sort of curious, and so he hangs out on the edges of the table poking at the flowers and such.]

Hello Surion. [ Look at this smooth lady work her magic.

... except there's really no magic involved and she's what you would call the rough surrounding a diamond right now. Details. ]

Have you come to see what the excitement is about? Oh--and those? You are supposed to wear them. Go on now.

[He arches an eyebrow and pulls his hand back as he's addressed.]

What? You want me to... wear it?

[Yeah, no. He's looking pretty skeptical. Like, bitch, I'm a dragon I don't wear flowers this ain't no green flight.]

Cynder did not know how to conduct herself properly in this sort of environment, which might be why she's being exceptionally cautious about all of this. Likely assumed to simply be one of the scaly 'lizards' skulking about the Sanctum, she'd nevertheless been grateful to acquire an invite to this party of the strange woman's.

And then she spent the afternoon attempting to figure out what to bring. It was proper when invited somewhere to bring along something, wasn't it? She wasn't sure, and wracking her memory wasn't producing many answers either, so by the time she actually arrives, the little black dragon is not only exceptionally uncertain she's found the right thing for this sort of shindig, she's half-convinced it's precisely the wrong thing to do. What she's brought is simple enough, a woven basket (with a convenient arching handle, good to hold in the teeth) full of fruit she'd ... found ... while scouring the nearby land. It's not particularly elegant but it's something.

It takes her a bit of time to maneuver the thing onto the table with Emma's far more refined offerings without losing fruit off the side. Clearly everything on the table is meant for eating, so cautiously she picks up a lei and slips off to the side to figure out how to eat it without getting string in her throat.

Qilby's come to expect seeing some unusual things on his infrequent trips back to the Sanctum. From what he knows about several of the other Blacksworn, he really should be spending more time there if only to supervise and make sure none of them do anything stupid or destructive. Or both.

That being said, a party (complete with bonfire and a spread of food) is one of the last things he'd expected to see. He's so taken aback, it doesn't even occur to him to simply turn around and leave like it normally would've -- against his better judgement, he actually decides to take a look around.

"What's the, aah..." Qilby begins, trailing off when he notices the flowers. He grabs a handful of the loops and holds them up before his face, giving them a skeptical look. Unbelievable. "...What's the occasion?

[ It's all right, she doesn't falter easily under the pressure of looks like that. In fact, she's giving him one in return. ]

That's what I said.

I know dragons have no problem when it comes to hearing things. I imagine your ears pick up a number of things, don't they?

Call her a moron to her face. Go on, it might be fun.

At least there's someone here who is willing to enjoy the party for what it is. Emma wastes no time in closing the distance between him and herself in amicable greeting between Blacksworn.

"Roasted bear, is it?" Not all that familiar with souls (that's another X-Man's specialty, not her's), she doesn't seem to notice anything about it other than the obvious fact that it's dead. A very dead bear. "Impressive--at least they won't whine in ire about the stock being diminished for the festivities."

Whatever the hell Qilby's talking to himself about as she eyes up the lei, it doesn't matter, because the second a certain someone sees him, she's stomping her way over and pointing an accusing finger at him as she squints her eyes and says, "Fuckin'-- you."

Any threatening tone to her voice is kind of lost to the fact that she's standing there wearing about ten leis that may or may not be covering a bare chest, and a little skirt that appears to made of grass or leaves or something ill suited to such a fiery landscape. And the fact that she's already chugged so much... whatever the hell of booze they had here - but still, she's clearly annoyed about something.

"The fuck d'you think you're up to, Quibbles, tellin' people that you're king of the blackflight, huh? Huh?"

...Oh.

It's not as if this is anything new for him -- she might actually be a little overdressed for a party by Eliatrope standards -- but this is... Not really the same thing, he has to admit to himself. No rationlizing this one; she's simply beyond all rationalization. He just has to stare a little bit, at a complete loss for words, before what she's actually saying gets through to him.

"I said-- what?" he says after a short, open-mouthed silence. He may say a lot of things that aren't necessarily true, but never before has he lost track of what lies he might've told to whom. Qilby's all for new experiences, but getting called out at a party by a half-naked woman wearing nothing but flowers and grass is not exactly what he had in mind. "What in the world are you talking about?"

He's not even going to touch Quibbles. Not yet, anyway.

"You, I'm talkin' about you goin' around tellin' people that you're in charge of blackflight!"

Apollo stops a couple feet away, making her pout and her glare all the more noticeable as she stares him down while he tries to figure out what in the fuck she's even talking about. She kind of isn't the most rational of people in the world (any world) though, so he is right about that at least.

"Greenie told me you've been talkin' shit to Blueflight an' friends, sayin' you're gonna be wearin' the obsidian crown," He didn't, that is literally something Rose said jokingly. "An' in charge of all the blackflight assholes, well, blackflight includes me and there ain't no one who gives orders to the King of the Sea." Even though her kingdom is literally worlds away right now, but still.

Normally he'd have just the right, pacifying words to say. Any other time he'd skillfully deflect the question and take ownership of the conversation before she'd realize what's going on.

Unfortunately this isn't "any other time," and after recent events he's not exactly in the mood for his friendly act. Coming back to the Sanctum and seeing his so-called flightmates wasting their time having a party is bad enough-- but this?

"It sounds -- and smells -- as if you've had a little too much to drink. I said no such thing," Qilby replies acidly, flinging the flowers back on the table. He looks down his nose at Apollo, matching her narrow-eyed glare with one of his own. "And even if I did, what are you complaining about? You seemed more than willing to take orders from me before, and I'm certainly more than qualified to give them."

The friendly act may have gotten Apollo to stop being as hostile, maybe. But it kind of doesn't seem to matter - he's not taking any of her bullshit, and in turn, she doesn't seem happy to settle with his answer, either.

"Not to me, an' maybe the others too I dunno, at least." She absolutely does sound and smell like she's had a bit too much to drink. But she's awfully sure about this (even if she's misinformed), and she doesn't seem eager to back down. "But greenflight's leader told me you're blackflight's leader, an' that you told... someone, an' hey fuck off, I ain't ever taken orders from you." At least she's pretty sure she hasn't. Has she? "Yeah? I control every sea Ce Monde's got an' I've got a fuckin' fleet of the navy's finest stolen ships an' more, the fuck makes you qualified anyway?"

"And you take the word of a Greensworn over that of one of your own flightmates?" he says, arching a brow.

But now that he thinks about it, a couple of lightly slurred words between the rest are starting to sound a little familiar. The Blue Flight? She must be talking about the conversation he had with that Bluesworn at the Ruby Sanctum so many weeks ago. He should've expected the idiot to do everything but deliver his message to the person he wanted him to deliver it to, but he wasn't exactly counting on him to apparently tell all the other flights about it.

Even so, Qilby's not about to confess that now -- not after all this -- so it looks like he's going to go ahead and have this argument. No matter. It's about time the question of Black Flight's leadership was answered, anyway.

"Perhaps I'm mistaken to think that millennia of experience as the leader of my race qualifies me for the position," he says, voice dripping with so much irony that he almost convinces himself he's telling the truth (he should have been king and really, that's all that matters.) "But certainly the fact that I'm the only one who's done anything to further our flight's cause here must count for something, wouldn't you say?"

"There wasn't any fuckin' word from my own flightmates, that's the problem!" She barks back, putting her hands on her hips and staring him down as though glaring and bickering is going to solve any problems (that's how problems are solved, right?). "You just went off talkin' shit well, you can talk shit all you want, but if you're sayin' you're in charge of a group that contains me then you're old and senile."

It's such a petty point to add to the argument, and yet, "An' you look like you're a millennia old." And she looks like she's a couple drinks away from completely wasted, but hey.

But, excessive drinking and ridiculous attire aside, she does actually have a problem with being subordinate to anyone here. Having control over every sea and criminal in it has kind of spoiled her. "Yeah an' what the fuck did you do besides stir up some shit, anyway? Is that what gets blackflight ahead, shit disturbin'? 'Cause I'm fuckin' fantastic at that, I'll fuckin' go start shit right now."

"A millennium. 'Millennia' is plural," he corrects, because hey -- he's never one to back down from an opportunity to be equally petty.

And saying so, Qilby then takes the time to remove his glasses, cleaning them one-handed on the loose fabric of his tunic with only a little difficulty. Apollo is ignored for the moment in favor of this, and it's several seconds before he finally turns a disdainful eye back on her. "I see now that you're even more short-sighted than I possibly could have imagined. You think that's the extent of what I'm doing here? That I'm wasting my efforts?" Even he can't hold his even, restrained tone for long, and soon enough there's a dangerous edge in his tone that matches his steadily deepening scowl.

"Fine -- if you think yourself so capable, why don't we take you straight to the source of the problem? It's not as if it's difficult to find the Legion. Go ahead and fight them as you are now, you so-called 'King of the Sea,'" he says, smiling suddenly, in a voice like a coiled snake. "I dare you."

Maybe if he's lucky, she'll take the bait, completely inebriated as she is. Death will certainly save her a headache in the morning, and him a headache for the rest of the time he's here.

Naturally, she doesn't give a shit about the corrected grammar. She does give him a face though, as though she's completely unimpressed and doesn't know why he'd bother in the first place, considering how rough her manner of speech is anyway.

"No fuck off, I know exactly what you're doin'." She counters, again with the accusing pointed finger. But whether she actually does know what he's up or not, well, that's debatable. "You're doin' the sneaky thing, where you go 'round puttin' this here an' that there an' when nobody's lookin', shit happens an' you cackle about it, that's how you do shit, yeah?" The whole time she talks, she talks with her hands as well. "You got some big grand plan beyond that? What is it then, huh? You gonna share with your flightmates or areya gonna keep it to yourself 'cause it's a big grand plan to be King of the Blacksworn?"

You know, nevermind the fact that there's a big metal dragon who already is King of the Blacksworn. Or whatever he calls himself.

"I'm stupid, but I ain't stupid." If she's missed a word in there, she doesn't notice. "I like killin' but I like livin' more, an' I'm thinkin' there might be a couple more demons that me an' Metalhead can kill in one night."

He glances from the finger pointed in his face to her, and back again, entirely unimpressed. The satisfaction of finally venting his recent frustrations is starting to wear off a little, and this argument is becoming less and less gratifying by the second. He's beginning to regret coming back to the Sanctum in the first place.

"You come to me like this, drunk to the point of near-incoherence and attacking me with only mere scraps of information you've got off a Greensworn, of all people," he says, with a laugh so scornful it sounds more like a cough. "And you expect me to confide in you? Make you privy to my 'big, grand plans?'"

"No, you can't be just stupid -- not even the village idiot would think I'd do that. You're practically insane." He leans in now, face mere inches away from hers, bending over just slightly so he can look down his nose at her. His great height is easily the most intimidating part of a not-so-intimidating person, but as tall as Apollo is, he can't loom over her the way he normally likes to. Still, he'll take what he can get.

"Ask any of our flightmates," he practically spits. "Anyone here can see you'd sell our flight's secrets to our enemies for little more than a bottle of drink."

There's an affronted, almost offended (but not at all hurt - no, she's definitely annoyed), look on her face as he continues to fight back and describe her in the most unflattering way. He does have a point and somewhere in the back of her mind she realizes that, but even if she hadn't been spending the better part of the evening drinking, it's unlikely she'd be willing to admit it.

No, what matters is that Qilby is suddenly in her face and calling her insane. Well.

He could have been five feet taller than her and her reaction would have been the same. She glares right back at him, not backing down and not at all intimidated. She can't loom over him either but she makes up for it in puffed out, tense looking wings, bared teeth, and a feline sounding hiss coming from her throat. It's no secret that she drinks way too much, or that her loyalties can be unclear, but having Qilby so close, angry and heated, makes her defensive, angry, and irrational too.

So when he says that last bit - the word drink is barely out of his mouth before Apollo is giving in to the first instinct that pops into her mind. In a split second she reacts by violently headbutting the man in front of her.

"You wanna fuckin' fight about it?" If she wasn't already causing a scene, well, she is now. "I ain't afraid to throw an old man into a bonfire, c'mon asshole, if you wanna see insanity then I'll fuckin' show you!"

"Is there a problem?"

How does a great metal beast sneak up on two unsuspecting members of his flight? Perhaps the mysterious black smoke furling off his entire body and disappearing into the air has something to do with it. Either way, Deathwing has found the nearest rock formation to lounge on like a basking crocodile, peering over his edge at the two arguing and letting his great, tattered wings lay lazily at his sides.

Beyond his vocalization, he makes no move to interrupt the squabble. In fact, he folds both forepaws in interest and tilts his head. His focus stays on Qilby -- he has some interests in seeing the full extent of their adaptations to Azeroth.

"Go on, Apollo. Show him."

Even if he could anticipate this next move of hers, he's simply too close to pull back before the top of her skull smashes into his face -- pain explodes in his nose, his eyes tear up, and he hisses something in Eliatrope (some words just don't need translating.) If not for the fact that she had to strike upwards slightly awkwardly, the damned woman might've actually knocked him out. Not that a steadily-bleeding nose isn't bad enough as it is. He recoils, putting some space back between him and her.

Gingerly he brings his hand to his face, palm already glowing blue with wakfu. Stemming the flow of blood is as simple as a slight redirection of energy to the bleeding area -- but although the life force can reknit bone and cartilage and stop any further swelling, it can't numb the pain or stop the his own blood from dripping down onto and staining his usually-pristine white clothes. The way he works the magic, calmly and without hesitation, sort of makes it seem as if this isn't the first (or even fifth) time he's provoked someone to the point of them hitting him in the face.

"Millennia of experience," he insists once more after a stunned silence, even managing an arrogant little smirk beneath his hand now that he's out of headbutting distance. "I've been around long enough to know that when people like you resort to violence, it means I've hit upon the truth."

A fight isn't what he wants. Not like this, not now -- so he's all ready to leave having gotten the last word in... If not for the sudden reveal of a very large spectator. Qilby freezes, palm still held up to his face, glancing at Deathwing only momentarily before shooting Apollo a wary look.

She wouldn't. Would she?

It's a little disappointing that she doesn't actually knock him out (god what a laugh she would have had if she did), but she'll take the bleeding nose too. It means she's done some damage, and when he backs up, she takes another step forward. Not enough to close the distance he's created, but enough to look like a bit like an angered animal reclaiming her territory.

Apollo stands and watches as he... does what looks to be some sort of healing magic on his nose. She isn't familiar with magic so immediately she's on edge, although once she realizes he doesn't seem to intend on using offensive magic, she eases up a bit.

"Fuck off, I'm always violent." There's some truth to that, at least.

And oh, wow, look at that. Suddenly there's a voice asking if there's a problem, and naturally, Apollo's immediate reaction is to shriek. It isn't a fearful noise though - no, it's pure frustration. Fucking dragons, gods almighty. Whipping her head over to direct her glare at Deathwing, she barks at him too. "What, what the fuck d'you want? You want me to throw the blacksworn leader into the fire, huh? That what you're tellin' me to do?"

She isn't keen on the idea of following a dragon's orders, but once she's done yelling at him, she's looking back to Qilby. And she sees that wary, oh she sees it. And so she advances on him, whether she actually intends to attack him or not.

This time, Apollo gets her attention, particularly with the words "blacksworn leader". His head swivels and tilts to consider her, his tail curling with interest in the pool of lava behind him. With Qilby having been so humble to him previously, this confirms in his mind that the Eliatrope has potential hiding in plain sight.

He intends to draw it out.

"Oh. A matter of politics, is it? Well, do not let me interrupt. Only the strong have their place among us, after all."

His head swings back to Qilby.

"Carry on."

[His brows furrow.]

I suppose next you'll tell me that you eat the flowers at the end of the night according to some weird mortal tradition.

[Whatever, he doesn't feel like struggling right now and he is still terribly curious, so he takes the nearest lei and dons it.]

Are you happy, your majesty?

Taking a step back to maintain the distance between them, Qilby keeps his gaze trained steadily on Apollo. Deathwing's goading (because that's exactly what it is -- he wants a fight between his Blacksworn, the blasted lizard) rings in his ear... Or maybe that's the hit to the head he's just received still talking. He glowers at her as she advances, palm still shielding his bloodied mouth from Deathwing's view but making his silently mouthed words perfectly clear to her: "You made this happen."

And with a sudden sweep of his arm upwards as if ripping something from the ground, the earth of the Sanctum responds, roiling like water around her feet and then yawning wide to swallow her legs up and trap her in place. Qilby's frown only betrays a little bit of his dissatisfaction. The same power which works so well to wholly restrain frail little imps clearly isn't going to be developed enough to do the same thing to a vicious, headbutting madwoman-- but it's all he can manage with only a few months' experience with these new Blacksworn abilities.

"My fellow Blacksworn here appears to have a very narrow definition of strength," he calls out, mainly for the Aspect's benefit. Damn Apollo for starting this idiotic fight, and damn Deathwing for encouraging it. Qilby was ready to walk away from it just moments before, but now what choice does he have? He can't afford to lose face.

He shrugs theatrically. "I suppose we'll have to educate her."

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

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KNOCK KNOCK WHO'S THERE

it's the peanut gallery

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