RP:Cats and Boxes, Man.

From HollowWiki

This is a Rogue's Guild RP.


Summary: After unintentionally becoming daydrinking buddies, Eleanor recruits Dezerae to assist as a lookout for a job. Together they head down to the harbor in Rynvale to meet with Charlie and Hugh, two local thugs hoping to trade a mysterious small box for an unspecified amount of gold. Luring the thugs down an alleyway with the promise of something better than money in exchange for the box, Eleanor kills both of them and steals the box instead. Joined by Dezerae who had kept watch from the street, the two women return to the JR to share drinks and words, leading the Rogue Leader to recruit the feline into their ranks.


The Jolly Roger

Eleanor sat on the bar, not at it. Regardless of any rules of hygiene, her cheeks peeked out around her cerulean tabard-style skirts as she crossed one leg over the other as she sat on its tarnished, dusty surface. Beside her left hip perched a bottle of whiskey - nicer than perhaps seen in the JR lately, and perhaps stolen from the Broken Barrel or some other drinking establishment - and its contents were already mostly gone, fueling a fire in her belly as she narrowed her celadon twins in a scrutiny of the warehouse. Her full lips slowly lengthened into a sly smile as a raven flew through a crack in one of the dirt-smeared windows, swooping down low in the room before alighting on the bartop beside her. The spell-rogue’s hands had been positioned behind her, holding her up in a lean, but they moved now to pull the small scroll from the raven’s leg, unfurling it for a quick scan. Whatever smugness had inhabited her features the moment before suddenly dissipated with a low growl, her shoulders dropping as she lowered the message to her lap. Not given orders to await a reply, the raven soon took off, back through the window and through the streets of the island city. El lowered her gaze back to the note, sighing again, before taking up the bottle and tipping back a swig. Sliding her full figure off the bar, she caught herself on the soles of her tall black leather boots, her skirts swaying with the movement as she then reached for her shadow-laced cloak that had been sitting nearby on a stool, the bottle of whiskey returned to the bartop for now.

Dezerae only knew two spots in Rynvale; the Broken Barrel and the Rogers. Having spent her noon at the prior, almost finishing their collection of Rum and likely overstaying her welcome, she decides to allow the Rogers to claim her evening. Freckled fingers attempt to the push the heavy-for-her door, strolling in with a huff after she manages. Crimson hues readjust to the contrast in light between indoor and outside and finally fall onto the familiar blonde. A rather long pause allows her to debate moving forward or begging the Barrel barmaid to take her back. After an internal battle, the woman releases a small sniffle before continuing to the bar. Heavy boots clunk against the ground as she makes her way to the bar, eyes targeted toward the stool she expected to take, and not yet falling onto the spell-rouge. Appearance wise, the feline was not as appealing. Crimson tresses were unruly from a night into day drinking, and lightly drenched from the unsettling rain. Her loose trousers were only held up by a belt, falling comfortably at her waist to allow her black (also drenched) tank top to stay tucked in. Eventually, she makes it to the stool and teeters onto the seat before climbing to sit onto her heels and lean over the bar in search of suitable liquors. That’s when she decides to greet the apparently leaving female, “Hello.”

Eleanor might have sensed someone coming up to the door of the warehouse were she not somewhat distracted by a whiskey mind and that mysterious missive; as it was, Dezerae’s arrival was both unexpected and moreso of a shock, her blonde brows rising as those pale seaglass eyes swept over the mostly-unfamiliar female. Despite that note she balled up in her right hand as she regarded the other warily, she was more relaxed than the last time they’d met, and she offered up a dipped chin by way of greeting. “Weel swatch whit we hae haur,” the spell-rogue purred, her hands stilling around the cloak as she gathered it to her, and she leaned against the bar, viewing Dez from the side. Her full lips twisted into a subtle smirk before she added, “Ye can hae what's left ay 'at,” her chin jerk indicating the whiskey bottle beside her, “but if yoo're lookin' fur Leo, he's it.”

Dezerae found a new bottle, its label committed to memory from her last visit here. “Rum.” Is all the feline said to Eleanor, at first, dragging the vessel in front of her and falling back onto the stool. Due to her animalistic sensitivity to smell, she knew the bottle offered by the spell-rouge was not her desired rum, though with her unclear mind, she could not pinpoint the actual contents. She sways quietly, wondering if she should be polite and pour into a glass or go through her usual antics of drinking straight from the bottle. As she mulls over the decision, fingers raise to push errant strands from her face, “I’m not particularly looking for him. Just came to knock a few back.” The redhead decides delicacy was not her style and takes a swift, neat swig from the bottle. She closes her eyes as that rum travels down her throat, quickly rubbing her eye of a tear procured from the burn. “I’m sure he won’t mind.”

Eleanor snickered, the sound low and hoarse as she delayed her plans of leaving in favor of observing Dezerae. “Och aye, sae lang as ye lae some fer heem,” the spell-rogue remarked, taking up the dismissed bottle of whiskey to follow Dez’s suit, tipping it back to take a swig straight from it. Its burn was familiar to her, just as the glossiness to her eyes was familiar to other people. “Issat sae?” the words tumbled forth as she slid onto that stool her cloak had previously been occupying. The port could wait, the spell-rogue was currently far more interested in the unfamiliar redhead. Letting the silence fill between them a heavy moment, El then canted her head to one side, the recently-rebraided plait tucked behind her left ear. “Ye kent heem, didnae ye?” she asked the other at length. “Afair.” Before she knew Leo, before he crawled from the sea, his memory in shambles. “Ye kent heem.” Dezerae was not the first ghost of Leo’s past she’d encountered, and she knew she wouldn’t be the last; it was becoming more and more common the longer they remained in Rynvale. First Terra, then Lita, now Dezerae. How many more skeletons sulked in his closet? Her lips twisted into an amused alignment, the gem in her diadem briefly capturing what little light the warehouse offered. “Whit did ye hink ay heem 'en?”

Dezerae tilted the bottle to swish its contents before shrugging, “I’ll make sure to try and spare some for him.” The feline appreciated the silence, its presence allowing her to think through her current situation. She was in a warehouse, with a mysterious woman, and on an island that she was stuck on until the lycan was willing to take her home. Another drink was taken as she mourned for a moment. The spell rouge’s repeated comment caught her by surprise, first because it was said twice and secondly because she still barely understood the second time it was uttered. Crimson gaze shifts over to the blonde, softly trying to mouth what she thought Eleanor said. She decided to eventually gives up, and take another drink. “What do I think of him? Ah…what do you mean? We’re friends.” She shrugged, not sure how to elaborate on the title of her relationships between the lycan and herself. He was a shoulder to cry on and she was…not really as helpful. But he considered her a friend then and even now, despite his lack of memory of their friendship. A mental toast to that yields another drink. “What do you think of him?” she gently tosses the question back toward the blonde, though her attention his half focused on the fact that her bottle is finishing up.

Eleanor studied Dezerae throughout her response, but eventually shook her head. “Nae noo,” she clarified with a shrug, finishing off the remainder of her whiskey. Wiping her mouth against the back of a wrist, she jerked her chin upward and settled celadons on the redhead. “Whit did ye hink ay heem -afair-?” she wanted to know. She knew who he was now, but she didn’t know Leo back when he had a pack and was alpha of said pack; she barely knew what any of that was, apart from what little she had gleaned over the time her and the wolf had been together. “Whit dae Ah hink ay heem?” El clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, sliding off the stool then to wrap the shadow-laced cloak around her, securing a belt around her hips. “Mair loch whit Ah know: Ah ken he's smarter than he looks. 'at he's stronger than he thinks he is. Ah ken 'at Ah can coont oan heem, an' Ah ken he wants tae involve ye oan whit we dae.” Her lips spread in a wolfish grin then, and her seaglass eyes swept over Dezerae from head to toe. “But ah dunnae ken ye an' ah dunnae ken abit ye.” Her sculpted shoulders shrugged then before being draped over by the murky folds of her cloak, her gaze momentarily fixed on making sure the cloak concealed her body as much as it could before returning her hooded stare back toward the other. “Sae. Ye can either teel me wa we shoods include ye. Ur ye can shaw me. A’ve got some wark tae dae at th’port, yoo're welcome tae come.”

Dezerae drank slowly now, her lengthy drinking session nipping at her mentally. She focused her mind entirely on trying to understand through the spell rouge’s accent, even going as forward as to slightly lean into the conversation as though it would clarify the pronunciation for her. “What did I think of him there?” she repeats, hoping to procure a nod that she understood. Regardless, she moves forward with answer, “He was a leader from what I remember. But I stayed separate from that, you know. We were just unexpected friends; I’m sorry I have no better answer for you.” She sips at her bottle slowly as the blonde lists off all the things she felt about the lycan and she nods, not necessarily agreeing but instead just trying to keep her now hazy mental state on track. “Me? For me to join? I’ve discussed this with him and I’m not a big…team player. He’s asked me to do manual labor and I’ve graciously declined.” Her offer to go to the ports and ‘show’ her capabilities, “Explain to me what that may entail.”

Eleanor finished tucking the folds of her cloak around her body, then returning her gaze back to Dez once more, arching a singular blonde brow. The woman’s lips spread into an even wider grin, and she shrugged. “Nae a' fowk is a team player, but a' fowk has skills th' team main need.” That being said, the woman began to saunter toward the door through which Dez had previously arrived, the note tucked somewhere into a hidden pocket. Nebulous as ever, she sent a glance over a shoulder back toward the feline. “Reit noo, Ah coods use a separate sit ay een, can Ah coont oan yoors?” Four eyes were better than two, if you didn’t count the gem in the spell-rogue’s crown. Sending a wink toward Dez, she pulled the door open, parting with a sly, baiting, “If yoo're nae up tae th' task, bairn, Ah willnae be offended.” Before disappearing, she pulled the cowl of her cloak up over her head, tucking any blonde curls back into its shadowy depths before heading out of the warehouse entirely.


The Harbor

Dezerae would be several steps behind the spell-rouge, perhaps at least ten minutes delayed. She’d decided to finish her bottle and debated with herself on whether following behind the generally unknown woman would be in her best interest. Her decision was split between pulling another bottle from behind the bar or sauntering out of this warehouse into the dangerous world that is Rynvale. Whatever drove her to follow, crimson gaze was steady and solemn as she strolled into the harbor, despite her erratic and cloudy mind. Being another set of eyes was what was proposed and what would be attempted but the feline also glanced amongst the inhabitants of this island closely, trying to commit to memory their antics and ways of speaking. They were nothing like the ‘simple’ folk of Kelay. Eyes finally fall onto Eleanor, yet she decides to remain afar, offering her eyes but not her presence.

Eleanor didn't go to the port directly, no; she wove up and down the streets, idly checking out other abandoned warehouses and eventually came to the harbor in a roundabout way, just as a small boat glided into port. The timing was ideal, the shadow-engulfed rogue quickly crossing the warped-boarded pier, pausing only as the gangplank thumped against the docks, to send a furtive sidelong glance over her left shoulder; she was pleased to see that Dezerae had in fact arrived, but made no overt indication that the feline's presence was noted - at least as far as the mysterious men now disembarking onto the wharf were concerned. There were two of them, possibly brothers by the similar facial features -- both tall and sinewy, with close-cropped sunbleached hair and shrewd grey eyes that swung around the harbor almost in unison before settling on the crowned female who stood quietly in front of them. At last, the shorter of the two thugs spoke, piercing the silence with a low, gravelly voice that carried too easily across the water. "The Eye," he said, tone dripping with derision. "You're awful far from the Oracle, she can't help you now." El made no move to betray any reaction she had to the way he spoke to her, but her full lips eventually twisted into a broad, roguish grin. "Charlie, Hugh; Sae guid ay ye tae join me." And then a beat, the silence filling the void again, before, "Ah tryst th' trip will be worth th' while; did ye brin' it?" 'It' happened to be a small box 'Charlie', or perhaps 'Hugh', now produced from within a pocket. Eleanor moved to reach for it, but he withdrew, chortling. "Money first," he spoke up, inspiring a bored sigh from the spell-rogue. "Ah hae somethin' better," she replied, an obvious coyness to her tone as she suddenly pivoted around and made to leave the pier, heading back for solid ground to two dumb looks from the thugs. One of them smacked the other against the sternum, gesturing toward her retreating figure; the other sneered, and together they turned to advance upon her, their expressions perfect mirrors of their greed.

Dezerae posted herself against the nearest wall, in plain view but still easily blending well with passing individuals. She looked like the belonged in the crowd, completely opposite of how she felt at the moment. Listening attentively to the conversation just a few feet away from her, the feline was slightly perplexed about the topic at hand. Perhaps she should have asked for a run-through or briefing before the spell-rouge left the warehouse. Regardless, she was able to gather an understanding that this was meant to be a tradeoff. The feline continued to lend her attention, save for a few times an adorable pet or small child roamed through the harbor. Eleanor seemingly had the situation under control until she swivels in Dezerae’s direction. “Hm?” What were they talking about? Having something better? Was Dezerae supposed to act on this? The freckled redhead pushed herself off of the wall, though was not sure what she’d be expected to do if any emotions were to spark.

Eleanor stalked back onto dry ground, winking at Dezerae as she passed her, followed close behind by the two men of disreputable nature. Past the feline she went, rounding a corner until she was able to duck into the shade afforded by wide alleyway; an alleyway she might have spent a moment in before meeting the men on the docks. The two men followed without hesitation, all three swallowed up by the shadows as El lead them to the dead-end, only then turning back around and appearing for all intents and purposes to be backed into a corner as she faced the two men. Her full lips spread into a wicked grin as she lowered the cowl, the turquoise gem in her runed diadem glinting despite the darkness that pervaded the area. Hugh and Charlie exchanged glances, wary, before two sets of cold grey eyes settled on the spell-rogue. “Where’s the money?” one of the demanded, taking a bold step forward. El didn’t budge but she did raise a brow. “Ah-ah-ah,” she purred in response, “Ah said Ah've got somethin' better fur ye.” Her grin grew a shade more sinister as she fixed her pale green eyes on the pair of thugs. “What the hell could be better than money?” insisted the other with a growl, joining his brother in another advanced step. “Wa, that's simple, wee jimmies,” Eleanor started to explain with a dry laugh, a long, jagged-edged dagger suddenly appearing in her left hand. “Yer li’es o’coorse.” Relying on Dezerae to guard the mouth of the alley and keep an eye out for Rynvalian guards, Eleanor suddenly lunged toward both men at once, blade slicing out in a wide, lateral arc for Hugh’s neck; caught off-guard by the attack, he dropped like a sack of potatoes to an angry, shocked snarl from Charlie. “You c---” Charlie didn’t get the chance to complete the expletive as the rogue’s catlike movements carried her easily into his space, a swift pirouette with flying dagger-wielding hand severing his jugular and spraying blood outward across her face and shoulders, leaving him to slump to the ground to join his brother as he slowly bled out, gargling sounds and wheezing being all that now broke up the silence. The fight was over before it had really gotten a chance to begin, both men now sprawled out in the alleyway, the Oracle’s assassin standing over them without a care for the blood that splattered across her face. Shaking her left hand, blood was flung from the dagger’s edge, before she dragged it across the cloak at her thigh, wiping it clean before returning it to its hidden vambrace within the draped confines of her shadow-laced disguise. The rogue leader crouched down between the two thugs, picking their pockets clean until she came to the box that had started the whole thing. Tucking it into a pocket, she straightened, and moved back toward the mouth of the alley to join Dezerae.

Dezerae flinched slightly as the three approached her, prepared to speak or even acknowledge their presence but calms down as they stroll right by her being. A soft exhale is released, and the feline kept her post against the wall, arms folded loosely at her waist and gaze slightly drifting across the harbor. She hears the loud remarks between the trio in the alley, but doesn’t regard them, knowing her attentiveness may drive the attention of others. Rynvalian guards do stroll about but Dez was neither suspicious nor attractive in her trousers for them to regard her another second. To them, she was an outside visitor, obviously not from here and the least of their problems. The redhead hears thrashing and slashing within the dimly lit walkway but still, she remains aloof, occasionally waving to small children that stroll by with their families. Eventually, the spell-rouge reappears, visibly clean but still carrying the scent of blood that made the feline’s nose wrinkle. She glances toward the alley, wrecked and discarded bodies laid out on the ground, and redirects her attention again to the murderous blonde. “Well then.” She exhales, raking one hair through her hair and the other free hand rubbing at her eye, “I feel like I need another drink after this.”

Eleanor snorted out a soft laugh, lips twisting in a smirk as she regarded the feline. “Och aye, ye an’ me baith.” She spared a glance over a shoulder toward the indistinct bodies now draped in the alley’s shadows, before giving her pocket a quick pat. It wasn’t that she disliked killing people, even when the pay was particularly good, but this had been a bit personal for the rogue. Loose ends, now tied up nicely. Or rather, untied and unkempt, staining the ground with scarlet. She didn’t care if the guards happened across them now; all they’d find are two wanted criminals with their throats slashed, two less deviants mucking up the streets of Rynvale. Pulling her cowl low over her head, she turned to begin her roundabout return to the JR.


The Jolly Roger

Dezerae somehow arrived to the Rogers before the spell rouge, most likely suddenly conscious that she’d witness a murder and was now an accomplice. Not a stranger to killing, she was accustomed to shedding her own share of blood, but intentions were different. She either needed a feeding in her old vampiric days or trapped in moments of children protecting. However, with the addition of a money transfer and dead criminals, the evening turned to a sour note for the feline. She wanders into the Roger, moving past social allowance and finding her way behind the bar. Red hair ducks behind the counter disappearing momentarily, before coming back up for air with a fuller Rum bottle. She decides to find herself a glass and pour it this time, knowing this action will slow her drinking down. When Eleanor eventually arrives to the bar, if she decides to rejoin her, the feline would bring her glass to her lips but speak over it, “So, do you do this all the time?”

Eleanor was quiet on the way back, her pace slow and casual, without a care in the world. Upon entering the warehouse, she shucked the cowl from her brow, blonde waves tumbling around her shoulders, before the cloak was discarded altogether, being draped over a chair in passing. She remained reticent as she crossed to join the feline at the bar, a wrinkle to her forehead beneath the shadow of that iron crown as she settled onto a stool. At Dez’s inquiry, the spell-rogue arched a brow, sliding celadon twins sidelong toward the other as a smirk slowly tugged at her lips. “Whit, shaur a bevvy wi' a strange female?” Her gaze scintillated with her amusement, before she found another glass to fill with rum of her own. With a husky chuckle, she cast her gaze toward Dez again, this time lingering on her features a moment longer than necessary, “Ah pure techt, if th' muid strikes me.” Parting with a wink, she then tipped back a swallow of rum, grunting a bit as it scalded the back of her throat.

Dezerae had finished her glass and was onto the next when she realized her bottle had been borrowed. She dropped her hands to the counter, taking a step back to look at the other options of bottles available; her patience was waning. With no other options really meeting her fancy, she is relieved when the rum bottle is available once again. While pouring, she could feel the blonde’s gaze pierce into her but she did not divert her attention from the pour. When she’d done with the bottle for the moment, having poured more than usual on the off chance the bottle was taken from her again, crimson optics roll upward again meeting the woman’s gaze at the tail end of her comment. “So just when the mood is right, huh? Interesting.” Her eyes drift away, the feline quietly sipping her drink. The small flutters in her gaze made it obvious that she was following a train of thought that was going above the speed limit.

Eleanor chuckled again, shrugging as she held the glass up, before taking a swallow of the rum. It wasn’t her drink of choice, but these days anything would do to dull the ache her diadem’s gem brought about. Her hand tightened around the glass before it was at last lowered to the bartop, eyes like seaglass shifting back toward Dezerae with an amused gleam, tempered only by the smirk that maintained hold of her full lips. “Aye,” she started, as vague as ever, “Aam nae gonnae gang seekin' somethin' it if th' muid isnae reit, loove.” Beat. “It's aw abit timin'.” Another husky chuckle tumbled forth, the spell-rogue tilting the glass on its edge, the contents swirling around; settling it flat again, gaze returned toward the feline. “Sae teel me, loove,” she continued, tone shifting slightly as she straightened on the stool. She paused, regarding the rum, and finished it off and feeling all the more thirsty. El reached for the rum bottle again to refill her glass before she at last spoke, leveling a sly glance back toward Dezerae. “When yoo're nae skitin' us dry, whit sort ay bodie ur ye?”

Dezerae mentally took note of the blonde’s hold on the bottle again, previously never thinking they’d be sharing the rum. But the Rogers was different from the one she remembers. The feline takes a longer swig from her glass, listening patiently about moods and murder. At the second label of ‘love’ the feline quickly interjects, not exactly keen on the name, “Dez. You can call me that.” She squints surreptitiously, the roguish glance in her direction also making her hesitant. The final question is processed mentally before she answers, “I’m a Cat. In every sense of the word. That’s such a broad question that I’m not quite sure how to respond.” She takes another sip from her glass and adds quickly, “And also, I’m not drinking the place dry. He’s use to me coming in here…” The realization painfully sets in that Leoxander probably was not familiar with her constant possession of a bottle because he wouldn’t remember such. Her features adopt a distressed expression before she finishes her glass and waits somberly for Eleanor to relinquish the bottle. As she pours again, this time getting as close to the brim as possible, she continues to speak so as to combat that silence that allowed her to think, “What have you heard about me, is probably a better question.”

Eleanor had no intention of discarding the nickname, but it wasn't one saved for Dez herself in the first place, merely a placeholder the spell-rogue was accustomed to. She'd come up with a proper nom de guerre later, but for now, it was either love, or Cat, the latter of which brought about a smirk as the feline in fact revealed it. El had had her suspicions, but in the end it still wasn't the answer she was looking for. "A moggie?" She let out a dry laugh, giving her head a shake. "Sae, ye jist sleep aw day, 'en? Hiner ye dornt hae a problem wi' tigers." The spell-rogue was quiet again, pensive as her gaze narrowed subtly upon the other. "Naethin'." Beat. "Up until puckle days ago, Ah didne e'en ken ye existed, an', uh, Leo an' Ah dornt dae a lot ay talkin' abit other fowk." Nor did she make a habit of asking about people unless there was something to be known. Life of a rogue. And not just any rogue, that is; she, Leo, and Huds had a sweet thing going with the dust business and there were some titles thrown around in circles not just occupied by the Oracle of Cenril. Like Fox. -Leader-. Full lips twisted, lengthening into a wolfish grin, dimples and all. "Is thaur anythin' Ah -shoods- ken?"

Dezerae paused, her expression changing at the mention of moggies but she doesn't lift her gaze from her drink. Eventually, she reanimates soon after the blonde continues to speak. She’s already half through the glass when she’d done with her ‘sip’. “I do not sleep all day, no. I wish I could be some people won’t allow of it.” The feline was beginning to feel unfazed by the intense glances she was receiving from the spell rouge - she now assumed that it was customary for conversation. “If he didn’t tell you anything, then I guess there’s nothing much to tell. I’m a pretty simple person; neither a threat nor a security.” Dainty fingers go to surround her half-empty (not half-full) glass, crimson hues reflected against the amber liquid. “Honestly, I’m only still here on this Island because he wants a crew. And being his friend, I’m obliged to join him on his endeavors.” Gaze lifts from the rum finally to meet with the blonde’s, the same contemplative stare offered before she goes about finish the rest of her glass.

Eleanor smirked, her celadons discarding bit by bit of their untrusting shields over the course of the conversation; she wasn’t anywhere near actually trusting Dezerae yet, but everyone had to start somewhere. There was a time she didn’t trust Leo farther than she could throw him - granted she’d hired him for his particular skillset - but now he was her partner in more ways than one. Perhaps Dez could be given the same benefit of doubt, for now, as an extension of that. “Ur ye noo?” she countered with an arch of flaxen brow. “His mukker? If that's true, 'en ye an' Ah ken he hasnae got mony ay those these days.” She paused, studying the feline’s features with an indiscernible stare. After a spell, she decided to latch onto what the Cat had said, albeit guardedly, “Whit he talks ay a crew is true thocht - we've got big plans fur thes islain.” Her brow rose higher, and the spell-rogue’s thick brogue dropped in tone, nigh conspiratorial though they were alone in the warehouse; “If ye want tae be a part ay things - Dez,” Eleanor paused, her full lips spreading into a devilish simper “ - ye jist say th' wuid.” She quirked that brow, then dropped it into an unreadable furrow. “But it'll be th' lest wuid ye spick oan th' matter, dae ye ken?” A rogue’s life was full of secrets after all; was this one Dezerae could keep?

Dezerae reaches for the bottle a third or fourth time, fingers lingering on the neck as she’s caught off guard by little things in the blonde’s comments, “Mukker..? Is th-…I’m not sure if I’m okay with that title.” Once the intense stares began though, the feline resumed pouring into her glass, stopping again below the brim. She mentally meandered through her thoughts, not sure how to proceed with Eleanor. Dezerae knew she was expected to be a part of the crew as a ‘Boatswain’, a title the feline had not looked into further since the Cat and Dog conversed last. But, Eleanor’s proposition seems a bit more sinister, more roguish, and more unsettling. The glass is brought to her lips again, a physically gesture communicating that she would need a minute, even going as far as to maintain eye contact with Eleanor. Eventually, she drops the class to the table and sighs softly. She’d promised to be part of his crew and though she wasn’t sure if what Eleanor spoke off was the same alliance, she’d unwillingly obliged due to principle. “Fine. I’ll do it. And besides, I just watched you murder a pair of men. If I go tell, I’ll be just as much guilty as you, so I don’t think you need to worry about me tattling.”

Eleanor flinched subtly at Dezerae’s change in phrase. She knew it was no more than a miscommunication, her nostrils flaring as she exhaled a measured breath. “Whit th' bludy heel,” she hissed out a tempered brogue beneath her breath as she curled her left hand tighter around her near-empty-again glass. “Ye jist said ye waur his mukker. Ur ye, ur arenae ye?” Her intense gaze wavered then, seaglass eyes sparkling with humor as a crooked grin parted her full tiers. “Ye cannae be baith … But ye can caa yerself mukker.” The spell-rogue loose a tumbling row of chuckles, husky in timbre as her shoulders shook; she was clearly amused with her own turn-of-phrase, knowing full well it took a talented person to navigate her tongue. “It's a guid start. Ur moggie.” El’s gaze dropped from Dez’s in order to sweep across the redheaded feline’s features; again her nostrils flared, and the gem in her brow glinted with it, but when she spoke again, there was that slyness that had been present earlier. “It woods be a guid codenam tay. Ur, Cat, if ye loch,” the guild leader purred, her hooded gaze unwavering when it returned to her possible recruit.

Dezerae winced as the woman seems visibly annoyed that Dezerae refused to be called anyone’s mother, as she felt that it was the only word close enough. However, she doesn’t move forward with that, tense shoulders having relaxed once the blonde begins to chortle. What a character. She takes brief sips from her glass again, the burn of the rum now dull and ineffective. Signs that she’d been drinking for too long. Dezerae wrinkled her nose, pausing her sips to gently choke on her drink, “M-moggie? No thank you. I’ll take Cat.” He called her ‘Cat’ already so she was already accustomed to the name. With an empty glass now, she settled the vessel on the counter but does not reach for the bottle again. Hands slip into the pockets of her trousers, orbs now glazed over; it was either fatigue or inebriation, or both. “So, what now? Am I part of the crew?” She leaned her torso against the counter, feeling her fragile body teeter slightly.

Eleanor swallowed down the dregs of her drink, the evening's activities catching up to her as well -- and she still needed to properly wash off the blood from the two men she’d been paid to kill and consequently steal from. The Mystery Box was still tucked away in the folds of her cloak, which she slipped back into as she rose from her stool, stiletto boots clunking against the floorboards and disturbing the fine layer of dust that presided over them. She gave her hip a pat, reassuring herself that the box remained therein; she’d return it to the Oracle soon, but for now, it was safe, or so she hoped. “Aye,” the blonde began, adjusting the belt around her cloak, before looking up toward the feline. Her lips twisted with that ever-present smirk, glassgreen gaze heavy. Her shoulders slumped a little more than usual to betray her underlying fatigue, but soon she was nodding. “Yoo're a part ay uir crew, Cat.” She didn’t speak for Leo’s crew, she’d leave that to him; there was a lot of crossover, granted, but for the guild they were forming together, Dez was now a bona fide member, potentially of the Kingfisher variety, full details to be determined. “Gods aam thirsty,” she mumbled under her breath, suddenly distracted by it. There was scarcely any potable water on the premises yet, but it tied in well with her current exit strategy. “'spikin ay Leo,” the spell-rogue added, brow arching slightly. “If we're nae haur, ye can probably fin' us at th' docks ur, there's a place we're stayin' oan th' beach.” The villa, courtesy of Lita, who’d been kind enough to help sequester them on the Island. She was heading toward the doors now, her exhaustion creeping into her bones; it didn’t help that she was mana-deprived, it only made the joint aches worse. With what might pass for a pinched smile, she saluted Dez with a nod, then said, “I'll be in tooch.” With that, the nebulous spell-rogue held a secretive smile to her lips, and, pulling the cowl of her hood down low, snuck out into the night.

Dezerae eyed the bottle that the two of them had empty and groans softly, worried for the effects her drinking would have in the morn. She took the bottle and hid it away in a corner she would silently claim and raised her gaze toward the spell rouge. Her mention of ‘Lita’ causes a furrow between her brow; it was the second time she’d heard the name. “I’ll just remain about the Rogers.” Despite the warehouse different in aesthetic, the establishment was a comfort zone for her, the only place linking to the other world she knew. Fingers graze over her hairline as the blonde meanders to the door way and with her exit, the feline offers a quick, soft, “Tah tah.”

Eleanor lingered in the doorway just long enough to hear Dezerae's reply. "Suit yerself. If Sidd comes by tae pick up his tools, try nae tae kill heem." She indicated with a jerk of her chin a backpack full of carpentry tools behind the bar, discarded by the kid who had managed to repair much of the furniture to a mostly-usable state. Sparing another smirk for Dez, she added in her retreat, "Goodnecht, loove." And then she was gone.