RP:Just Networking, Girl

Part of the The Dust Up In Cenril Arc

Summary: Hudson is straight chilling in the Bazaar, running errands when he runs into Eleanor, whom he helps shake down a total stranger for some money the guy owes her. After, Eleanor and Hudson go to a dive bar to banter and hang and eat breakfast food (as one does). Hudson asks Eleanor, who represents to him the criminal element of Cenril (in hot babe form), if she has a connect who would buy wholesale and distribute a narcotic, assuming he could get his mitts on some. She reluctantly says yes, and the two part ways after agreeing to meet again.

Cenril Bazaar

Some time has passed since the ill-fated ball, and Huds has been somewhat scarce from Cenril, the cold weather having a way of keeping people indoors, in his case in Kelay. He does however keep a horse and mum in Cenril - or rather they keep themselves is the better way of putting that - and so he's got reason enough to return. And return he does, when a bout of snowy weather clears up. He's ordering home improvement supplies at a bazaar and arranging for the shipping when he spies a shock of blond hair over blue eyes and a slender figure cut across the way. Or perhaps he hadn't, he isn't quite sure. It's enough to lift his gaze from the bill of sale to the spot where he'd sworn he'd seen her. There's nothing there, though, and the merchant taps a pen impatiently, drawing Huds' attention back to the task at hand. He completes the order and, tucking the receipt in the interior pocket of his wool coat, begins to weave his way out.

Eleanor was at the bazaar, sure, but she was tucked away in a stall with another man, a lankier sort with gaunt cheeks and bags under his rheumy eyes. The two of them were conversing heatedly, and El was jabbing at the skinny specimen with an angry index finger. “Ye haverin' wee thief,” the spell blade snapped; the man stumbled backwards, his eyes rolling around in their sockets. The backs of his scrawny thighs bumped into a table, and El took the chance to advance on him. “Ye owe me 875 gauld pieces fur 'at job, an' Ah will gie mah bunsens.” The man looked away, searching for some way of getting himself out of the mess he now found himself in as the shorter female grew even closer to him. She withdrew a runed dagger from its hidden tattoo’d sheath, and pointed the tip at him; the blade glistened with a toxic resin, and the sight of it glinting in the half-light of the shadowy stall made him even more nervous, his eyes wide with alarm. “Now, don’t go getting yer panties all twisted, lady,” the man replied, holding up both hands in the universal sign of surrender. “I don’t owe ya nothin’.” This was not the answer Eleanor was looking for, but being quite used to the scoundrel’s antics, she rolled her celadon eyes, clearly annoyed. Her dagger remained angled up toward his neck, just a few inches between his vulnerable throat and the poisoned edge of her blade. “We baith ken 'at is bull, Vendrin,” she countered with a sigh. Shaking her head, she dropped her voice and spoke to him, “Ye will gezz mah gauld, ur Ah will fillit ye loch a fesh -” Eleanor moved her blade down for a moment with threatening intent, then back up again, her gaze never wavering. “Navel tae beak.”

Hudson's steps carry him past the stall, and there it is, a shock of blond and the sudden gleam of metal on flesh. He slows to rubberneck and finds himself gazing wide-eyes at Eleanor and her shady companion. There's a lot he'd like to say to Eleanor -- "why'd you have to wind my girl up in the carriage" being chief among them - but it's not the time nor place to get down to the nitty gritty of their maybe sometimes inappropriately flirty friendship. The guy she's threatening tries to peg Huds for an ally and begins to sputter a request for assistance. Huds, for his part, is quick to reach for the curtain that partitions off the bazaar main drag, effectively granting them privacy from further interruptions. "This guy giving you trouble?" he asks Eleanor, nodding at the man on the other end of her blade.

Eleanor quickly looked toward the flap as it fell, an audible groan falling from full lips. Stoatin, jist whit Ah need noo, she thought to herself. Rolling her eyes, she split her attention between Vendrin and Hudson, the former earning himself a hostile glare as he entreated Hudson with his eyes. “Dornt e'en hink abit it,” she said to the man, her blade still held aloft mere inches from his throat and moving closer for a beat. To Hudson, she leveled a gaze that, while annoyed, could not remain so for long; in the dark of the stall, the expression could easily be lost amongst the shadows, the alchemist the chink in her armor. Although she normally did not mind getting her hands dirty, Hudson’s arrival was opportune, and the gears in her mind whirred to life. “Och, och aye, he is givin' me aw sorts ay trooble, officer,” she drawled, a grin tugging at the left corner of her mouth. She sent Vendrin a sidelong stare to gauge his reaction. “Th' wee jobby stole nearly 1000 pieces ay gauld frae me. 'at is groonds fur at leest three days in a ceel in Cenril jail, is it nae?”

Hudson lifts his eyebrows as Vendrin looks again to HIM for reprieve. Come on, guy, that isn't going to happen. Huds is about to manufacture a song and dance routine to account for his sudden presence, but Eleanor's beat him to the punch. Hudson, getting the drift quickly enough, widens his stance, assumes a more officious seeming posture. Never mind that he's in casual clothes. He could be somebody's hired gun - it's not Vendrin's business. Hudson carefully shutters his expression to the dour one generally adopted by law enforcement. He offers her a "That's right, miss, we been really efficient of late with the bookings and whatnot, the undercover operation here in the bazaar has let us catch all manner of..." he fixes a gimlet gaze on Vendrin, "...wrongdoing." He lifts his chin, as if appraising Vendrin with his own private lie detector. "Man, what do you have to say for yourself? You seem to have the air of a guilty party to me. Shall we have you back to the station and see whether you've got a file on you, sir?"

Vendrin definitely did not appreciate how his day was turning out; thinking he’d be able to pull a fast one on the lithe blonde, it had never occurred to him that someone else might intervene -- after all, why in the gods’ name would a thief report another thief? Snitches get stitches. But the devilishly dark glint in Eleanor’s eyes was not helping what little confidence he had remaining, her ruthlessly smug grin turning his stomach to mush. “I-- I don’t want no trouble, officer,” Vendrin stammered, leaning back into the table with both hands still held up. “I’m jus’ trying to do my job--honest! This crazy bitch just storms in here and waved a weapon at me!” He trembled where he stood, amplifying his showmanship. “I feel threatened in my own place of business!” His business being of a particularly rancid nature, the stall filled with boxes of what could only be assumed to be rotting fruit; closer investigation would probably reveal that the stall’s actual owner had been gone for some time. Eleanor rolled her eyes yet again, placing both hands on the full swell of her hips -- the aforementioned weapon was suspiciously absent all of a sudden, but the dagger-shaped tattoo on her left forearm was not. “Ah dah ken whit he's talkin' abit, officer,” she drawled slyly, a curious gaze sent in Hudson’s direction. “He snatched mah coin purse, an' Ah chased heem in haur.” Vendrin’s eyes nearly popped out of his sockets, incredulous to the smooth lies that fell from Eleanor’s mouth; much more practiced and calm than his own, that was certain. It was to be his undoing. “I ain’ done nothin’--” he insisted, shaking his head. His beady eyes danced between Hudson and Eleanor, before he impulsively shot forward, attempting to duck between the two of them toward the closed flap of the stall and out into the busy mob of the bazaar. Eleanor’s tiara flashed briefly, her right arm shooting out to catch Vendrin at his neck and sending him flying backwards. Vendrin’s skull connected resoundly with the edge of the table, and he collapsed, unconscious, to the dirty floor. Clucking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, Eleanor smirked to Hudson, “Bludy heel.”

Hudson continues to fix Vendrin with the steely eyed glare of officious interest, as the man stammers an explanation. Hudson, now enjoying his new role, waves a hand, as if to silence the cut purse. Eleanor tells her side, and it's plain to see from Hudson's subtle shift in demeanor that officer friendly finds her more credible. "Sir," begins Hudson as Vendrin protests, but there's no time for lectures. What happens next goes down very fast, with Hudson one moment tensing like a spring to give chase and the next staring at Vendrin splayed out by some nearly rotten oranges. Hudson exhales a curse, and shoots a reproving look at Eleanor as he squats down by the unconscious thief. Dude seems out cold. Right then. "What dude doesn't like a little roleplay now and then..." comments Hudson in a good natured tone, fishing in the guy's pocket and wincing as he does so. A little close for comfort but it has to be done. He underhand pitches Eleanor a purse he's recovered. "Money owed?" he narrates, then straightening and brushing by her to hold open the flap. He waves her out first. "'C'mon then. Let's get out of here a-sap, before our friend here wakes up."

Eleanor released a husky chuckle at Hudson, his words inspiring a subtle broadening of her smirk. Easily snatching the purse in her right hand, she pulls it closer and tugs open the drawstring while gauging its weight with a few tentative bounces. “A wee lecht, but it is a start,” she decided with a nod. Tightening the string once again, she crouched down by Vendrin, not yet ready to leave his body as it was. Following Hudson’s suit, she went through and picked the other thief’s remaining pockets, stowing her finds in concealed pockets of her belt. Straightening to her full height, Eleanor nodded to Hudson. “Alrecht, let's gang noo,” she concurred. Tossing wheat-hued braids over a shoulder, she straightened her shoulders and moved confidently out of the shadows of the tent, angling a sly wink in Hudson’s direction as she passed. Moving now fluidly through the throng of people that ebbed and flowed in the bazaar, she gracefully avoided multiple collisions, moving through the crowd as though it was water and she a synchronized swimmer of impeccable choreography. Flashing a cheeky grin over a shoulder at Hudson, she called to him, “Ur ye guttin'? Ah am payin'.”

Hudson blocks the 'doorway' out of the stall with his body to conceal this last pilfering of Eleanor's, and then follows her out. His larger frame encounters a bit more difficulty weaving through the market goers, and he by necessity seizes her trailing hand in his on more than one occasion to at least prevent losing her in the fray. Can't link hands the whole way through, though, got to exercise some purposeful restraint, there was after all Alvina to think of, and she wasn't exactly Eleanor's biggest fan as Huds knows. He probably shouldn't be consenting to go grabbing food with the woman, but... "Wouldn't mind a bite," he comments, nearly bumping into Eleanor as a large ox-drawn cart stubbornly pushes its way through everyone and causes a mini stampede of sorts. It's cramped on the way to the fringe of the market, and then the street opens up before them, and they're home free. Releasing her hand for the last time, Hudson falls into a step beside Eleanor, and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Lead the way," he tells her.

Dive Bar

Eleanor looked past a sun-bronzed shoulder toward her companion as she felt his fingers brush hers as they made their getaway through the marketplace. Her gaze sparkled, her smirk broad, but she kept both tempered lest they wandered too much or read too much into the light touches they shared. After all, she’d just effectively knocked a man out in one of the stalls and the sooner they were clear of the bazaar and questioning folk, the better. “Guid. Ah coods eat a whole cuddie -- ur ox, fur 'at matter,” the woman returned with her thick burr, eying the alchemist as they dodged the cloven hooves of the oxen. She lead them down a series of streets, and side-streets until finally they were approaching a very out-of-the-way bar, into which she ducked without hesitation, and descended down a flight of stairs to where the basement housed the dark but spacious tavern, safe from prying eyes. The celadon-eyed woman sashayed toward a booth tucked in a corner, partially concealed behind a lattice partition, and a sigh of contentment fell from her full lips as she sank into the cushiony seat. “Guid gods, wark makes me guttin',” El chuckled.

Hudson and Eleanor fall into a companionable silence as they make the rest of the journey to the tavern. He uses the time to reflect on how he's got to, without making it clear that Alvina had been rather angry at him, signal to Eleanor that things need to stay low-key between them, for the sake of continued domestic peace. Or quasi peace. ...Or peaceful resentment, if he's being honest. Not much to do with Eleanor, of course, but remembering the reality of how sour things are at home casts a long shadow over their funny caper at the market. Lest he become carbonated with grumpy thoughts along this vein he settles into the seat across from her and resolves to banish the subject from his mind. Yes. Let him not dwell on how Alvina is mortally depressed and he's been unable to snap her out of it, because that's how depressions are, I.e., awful (doing a great job of banishing the line of thought are we) and he's awful for thinking that it's awful (ah, but surely everyone thinks they're awful). Somewhat off kilter, he smiles a bit belatedly at Eleanor and then looks at the menu, grateful for its distracting presence. (He's likewise grateful for Eleanor's distracting presence but remains mindful that she is also Illegal, banned by the Depressed Girlfriend.). "I hope we didn't con someone important," says Hudson, seeking comfort food and eyeballing the breakfast all day section. "Never a dull moment with you I suppose. How've you been since uh... well since the ball?"

Eleanor eyed Hudson, smirking, as he settled in across the table from her. She drew her right leg to tuck under her left, getting comfortable as she tore her celadon gaze from his only briefly, signalling with two fingers toward the barmaid. As the half-elfin woman sauntered closer, sizing up both El and Huds, the spell blade returned her hooded stare toward her alchemist companion. Oblivious to where his thoughts wandered, she took a beat to study him, her full lips urging that smirk to broaden subtly with his inquiry. “Ah hae bin weel. Better noo 'at i've bin paid,” she parted with, tapping her coin purse once, satisfied by the chink that was muffled beneath the table. El neglected to add that his presence was definitely helping, although at his mention of the ball, her smirk grew even more noticeable, and she canted her head, arcing a brow, blonde braids shifting over her left shoulder. “Hoo is yer lassie? Miss me?” The barmaid was given her attention now, and as she waited for Hudson’s response, to said to her, “Whiskey. An' th' special.” The celadon-eyed woman nodded to the half-elf, whose gaze was knowing, even if her smile was pinched; the other woman then turned toward Hudson, quill at the ready.

Hudson mentally plots a course for French Toast, which probably has another name in Hollow. He can feel her eyes on him, and he smirks at the menu at the musical sound of money from across the table. "Something tells me I don't want to know the finer details of what the job was," he says, his gaze lifting to meet hers, amusement simmering there. "Alvina's OK," he says, his gaze darting between the serving girl and Eleanor in a way that suggests he's put a temporary hold on a thought. Time to order. He asks for the French Toast and a pint, and waits for the half-elf to leave their table to turn a gimlet eye back to Eleanor. He seems to ponder whether he wants to say that thought he'd put on ice. "Miss you? I don't know what to say to that. It's nice to catch up," he exhales, slumping back in his booth and eyeballing her as a silence briefly inserts itself. "You're a bad girl," he says, eventually, picking up the salt shaker and idly rolling it in his palm. "I think you know it too. Let's leave it at that." He taps the shaker against the table to punctuate this statement. "Where are you lodging these days?"

Eleanor smirked, arching expressive blonde brows high over lucid celadon depths. “Fur someain wantin' tae distance themselves frae th' ... details ay whit Ah dae, ye sure hae a way ay findin' yerself tae be a body ay those details.” Her left brow rose even higher, her smirk all that was keeping her expression in check, full lips pursed to subdue a chuckle. However, there was no stopping the husky sound from falling from those lips as soon as Hudson misinterpreted her inquiries. “Ah was askin' if yer lassie missed me, Hudson,” the spell blade clarified with a smug, toothy grin, “but it is guid tae ken 'at ye dae, an aw.” Winking at him, she then shrugged, the gesture rolling off her shoulders dismissively. His own question after her “lodgings” was noted, but she set the question aside for a moment, instead drawling with a confident and curious, “If ye hink Ah am sae bad, wa bortha tae intervene? Wa nae rin in th' other direction?” El’s grin grew even more pronounced as she added, “Ah hink it is coz ye loch 'at Ah am ... weel, bad.” The half-elf took that moment to return, two pints set aside the table with minimal slosh. The food would come later, presumably, as the barmaid left to tend to other patrons. Eleanor’s gaze lingered on her, then swiveled back pointedly toward her companion. “Yer life main be sae borin' withit me.”

Hudson reasserts his squint at Eleanor as she corrects him. "Blame that little mixup on your accent," he exhales a touch gruffly, quirking a brow as he sits back for the waitress to serve them their drinks. He waits for the half-elf girl to pull away before tackling more provocative statements that Eleanor's set out between them. Fairly loaded, everything, then again maybe his little misunderstanding is what had brought them there. He drinks from his beer, creating a little space for himself to get his thoughts in order. His face feels a little warm. Damn that woman. She's needling in all the right places. "Yeah, we have fun," is what he comes up with, and he pauses after saying so to wipe the residual foam from his mouth. "I don't know what else to say to any of that. I don't think I'm supposed to say anything." His index finger swipes across the table top in a pantomime of drawing the proverbial line in the sand. He makes eye contact with Eleanor. "Anyway," he exhales, and then looks as the waitress swings by yet again to drop off their plates of food, warm with clouds of steam rising from them. He waits for the girl to move away before adding to the conversation once more. "I have sort of a sketchy business idea but I need somebody who has connections, like... I THINK you do."

Eleanor couldn’t help herself; observing Hudson from across the table, and noting the way he all but squirmed in response to anything she said - well, it was definitely making up for her awful morning, let’s leave it at that. Although her smirk had tempered somewhat in the wake of his words, her celadon hued stare remained fixed wholly on her alchemist companion, waiting for him to spit out whatever was clearly on his mind. The barmaid had impeccable timing, of course, and soon enough their food was adding to the awkward barrier between them. That was fair -- Hudson had not been wrong, after all. Eleanor was bad, but for a good reason. Suddenly, she leaned forward in her seat, leaning elbows against the table; his words had definitely stirred some genuine interest in the spell blade, and a greedy glint darkened her gaze: Hudson had hooked her. “Is 'at sae, Hudson,” came her intrigued but guarded reply. Her drink went untouched for now, her food as well; something else was on her mind, now, as she waited expectantly for the other to reply, linking her azure-tattooed hands together.

Hudson is generous with the syrup and lets Eleanor wait a bit. She's been bad, after all. He's grateful for a change in topic, also, he'd been close to reminding Eleanor verbally that he has a girlfriend. And let's be real, that reminder was more for him than for her. Because from this vantage point, seems she knows and clearly doesn't care. Seems like she is almost as forward as they come, and a double threat because she's his friend, not some random girl. (He shouldn't be friends with girls who are threats, he tells himself, promptly followed by: it's under control, it's fine.). Anyway, time to talk business. Saying this to her will make it real, what he's been thinking. He rubs his cheek and exhales, searching his conscience one last time for an out. Finds none. May as well - he can't come up with anything else anyway. He leans forward over his food to address her, his gaze landing on hers as he talks in a low voice: "If I needed to wholesale distribute some narcotics, would you know someone?" Classic man not used to being shifty, he looks in both directions to ascertain that nobody's listening. Who even would be. He cuts some toast with his knife, chews, washes it all down with beer, his gaze pinned on hers.

If Eleanor could only read Hudson’s mind, she’d probably tell him that he thinks far too much. In the meantime, her smirk remained in place upon those full lips, her gaze wandering around Hudson’s features as she attempted to read past his anxiety and hesitations. She suspected part of it was due to the complicated nature of their “friendship”, or at least how Hudson perceived it, the rest was probably inspired by whatever shady business he had found himself a part of. Once again, Hudson was right -- she did know people, one in particular who already had quite a network for herself; not that El was thrilled to have to set Huds up with her, the Oracle was unpredictable at best. “Och, Hudson, whit ur ye gettin' yerself intae?” came her initial reply, the muscled blonde leaning back from the table as she shook her head, clucking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Fur shiz an' giggles, let's say Ah dae ken someain …” El began, thoughtfully toying with the situation she found herself in, “Whit sort ay quantity ur ye needin' moved?” She reached toward the table, taking her whisky tumbler in one hand and knocking back a swig before setting it back down, steely celadon stare fixed on Hudson. Her full lips spread in a cheshire-like grin as she leaned casually back, lifting her chin to peer through sooty lashes. Eleanor did not ask what type of narcotics the alchemist wanted to distribute, at least not yet. For now, the other details were more important to her. Instead, she tacked on roguishly, “An' dae Ah gie a finder's fee?”

Hudson cants his head, swallowing a mouthful of air in response to Eleanor's question. "I don't know," he exhales, running his hand over his face and tilting his gaze back to his French toast. "A career, maybe." He falls silent, cutting through his food as Eleanor takes them through a hypothetical that doesn't seem that hypothetical to him. "Yeah, sure," about the fee. "You know the people, I have the product. And don't know yet. Small batch, just to try it out." He swills more of his beer before leveling a look her way. "It's not like you got plans to hang out with Alvina but goes without saying this conversation doesn't leave this table, except for you making this connect, yeah?" His gaze peruses her pretty features as he lets that one sink in. She seems to him like a wild cat in how attractive she seems, and how feral she really is. "I mean, you and me, cone of silence. Like always."

Eleanor’s left hand reached forward to play with the knife that came with her steak special, loaded high with potatoes and rich gravy. Given her (somewhat limited) knowledge of Hudson’s alchemical hobby mixed with his penchant for smoking, she was inclined to ask, “Did ye make thes ... product yerself?” As he went on to mention his girlfriend, her nostril flared just slightly, almost imperceptibly. “Ah am almost insulted, Hudson, tae e'en imply 'at Ah woods ever hae sic' loose lips.” Although there was a subtle reminder to him that she was bad news lest he should ever forget, she smirked, snorting playfully. “Aam nae a kiss an' teel kinda lassie.”

Hudson shoots Eleanor a look, as if reproving her for doubting him, even if she's not doing that at all. "Yeah, maybe, not made yet though," he answers her, shoving a forkful of toast in his mouth and chewing, dropping his gaze as she admonishes him. He snorts a beat later. Leave it to El with the innuendo. He reaches for his ale and drinks more of it. "Penalty box for that remark," he says, briefly pointing a finger at her. He applies more syrup to his food. "You got to tell me how to get in touch with you if we're going to do this," he comments, cutting up what's left and eyeballing her. "Where you staying, woman?"

Eleanor ran her tongue across her lips, taking delight in pushing Hudson’s buttons. Snickering, she rolled her shoulders, dismissing his chastisement as with everything else. “Wa ur ye sae insistent oan findin' it whaur Ah gang tae sleep each nicht?” she countered after a moment. “Lookin' fur someplace tae hide frae yer girly when things gang sooth?” She paused to let her jab take effect then quickly added, “Ah tak' it she woods nae be huir uv a thrilled tae hear ay yer latest exploits.” El paused again, this time to adopt a more serious tone; leaning forward against the table, steak knife loosely between the fingers of her left hand, she added, “Hoo dae Ah ken Ah can troost ye?” Nevermind that he had saved her life at least once, the question still stood.

Hudson's mouth is full with French toast so he settles for shooting Eleanor a black look. At length he swallows and drains the last of his beer. The light catches on Eleanor's hair, making it a false halo around her features. "No," he says levelly, sighing at her. He thinks about Alvina, sitting around in her bathrobe for days at a time. Clutter collecting around the house. He shakes his head at Eleanor. Incorrigible girl. She wears him out, whittles away at his resolve. At what point does this type of banter cross the line, because it strikes him that was awhile ago. He eats the last of his toast before answering her final question. "Can't you?" he asks her, his gaze settling on hers. "I trust you obviously, or I wouldn't be here."

Eleanor dropped her gaze from Hudson’s, considering his words as she at last took up the steak knife, and her fork, diving into the slab of meat on her plate. “Ah dornt want ye blamin' me if ye gie in ower yer bonnie wee heed,” the spell blade began after a couple bites had been chewed and swallowed. Lips twitching in that ever-present smirk, she went on to say, “Ah still huvnae figured it wa ye dae troost me ... efter aw, aam sic' a bad, bad bodie.” Trust issues aside, the tiara’d woman nodded, the gem in her diadem glinting with the reflection of nearby candles with the gesture. Looking around, she surveyed the tavern with a scrutinous gaze, before returning celadon twins to her companion. “Fur obvioos reasons, Ah cannae jist it an' teel ye whaur Ah bide.” Eleanor paused, studying Hudson a long moment. “Sae lang as yoo're nae some secrit officer ay th' law, 'en Ah can shaw ye.” Once more, she sawed off a chuck of her steak, and shoveled it, along with some gravy and mashed potatoes, into her mouth; around the food, she added, “Efter.”

Hudson snorts at the idea that he's getting in over his head. "Don't emasculate me," he tells Eleanor, his mouth twitching with a faint smirk. He holds his gaze to her as she keeps on talking. He snorts again. "Some secret officer of the law if so," he comments dryly, eyeing her as she eats. A silence shakes out over them, like snowfall, and at length he tempers a sleepy smile. "I like how you're willing to tell me where you live if it's for just-kidding bootycall purposes, but for business you have to think about it," he comments, shaking his head and casting his gaze at the other patrons who are still eating. Probably shouldn't have said that. He rubs his eyes, sighing before speaking again, "just a place to reach you is fine, you don't have to physically reside there. Fair?"

Eleanor chuckled, shrugging those toned shoulders of hers. “Nae a body said anythin' abit yer masculinity, Hudson,” she replied, but judging by the way her hooded gaze lingered on him, she was at least thinking about it now, especially with his later comments regarding bootycalls. Like a cat surveying a delicious mouse, she sized Hudson up as she took her sweet time finishing her meal. At length, she scraped the last of the gravy and potatoes up on her knife, licking it clean before finally addressing her companion. “Ah prefer tae keep mah business an' personal life ... separate. Cleaner, 'at way.” Beat. “But since ye fit huir uv a nicely intae baith categories, noo, Ah will make an exception … thes time.” It was then that she stood, her paneled skirts falling around her legs to about mid-calf, but they did little to conceal the tattoos that swirled around either thigh as she moved around to the side of the booth. A few coins appeared in her hand, then pressed down onto the tabletop, and she gestured for Hudson to join her. As she waited for him to finish, she downed the remainder of her whisky, and grinned to him. “Weel, ye comin' ur nae?”

Hudson has to wait for a response, and already he's regretting his remark. It had been a little inflammatory. She does look awfully smug about something, at least. And then she answers him, and he holds his tongue. Shoots her that same dead-eyed look that's not gotten him anywhere tonight. He looks at the money she's left on the table. He doesn't offer to pay. A chivalrous gesture in an already fraught situation: nope. She had said it was on her. The tattoos naturally attract his attention, but he does the thing where he looks away abruptly, as if he'd looked into the sun itself. He's all done, so he rises out of the booth after her. "An address would be fine, but hey, lead on," he tells her, gesturing for her to lead the way. He feels obligated to create an end to this little field trip to Eleanor's flat. "I can't stay long, this is just so I know where to send mail."

The woman was used to garnering stolen stares from people, and although she doesn’t comment outward on the way she caught a glimpse of Hudson shying away after having done just that, the smirk that held her full lips captive twitched in one corner. Standing a good half-foot (plus some hair) shorter than Hudson did not deter Eleanor from her self-assured posture, shoulders back, standing up tall, as if she owned the floor upon which she stood. Before moving to depart, she looked up at Hudson, a ghost of a frown briefly taking over her lips. “Nae mail -- nae pepper,” she emphasized huskily. She turned quickly away from him, braided-haired, diadem-sporting head held high as she wove fluidly through the bar toward the exit.

Eleanor's Place

Hudson's gaze briefly connects with Eleanor's. No mail!? "Right," he exhales, following after her. He waits until they're outside, sidling up to walk beside her, to broach the obvious concern: "I can't just pop on over to where you're living whenever until I find you. We got to figure out some way to at least arrange meetings." He gathers his coat about him, the wind whistling as it blows against their journey through the streets. "How you aren't wearing pants is beyond me," he adds.

Eleanor was the queen of subterfuge; it’s how she’s managed to stay alive this long, with her past chasing after at every turn. “Alrecht, hae it yer way,” the woman conceded with a weary sigh. Tall leather boots continued to carry her away from the subterranean tavern, and she cast a glance along her shoulder toward Hudson. “Ye willnae see me comin' tae yer hoose either. Ah dornt dae domestic.” Yes, because that was the only reason. Her celadon twins fixed Hudson with a curious stare, and for a span of a beat, she hesitated; what if he was doing this because he was somehow in trouble? Without thinking, she reached out for his hand as she rounded a corner, and before she could stop herself, the words were flying from her full lips. “Ye ken, ye dornt hae tae dae thes - ye dornt pure want tae be apart ay mah warld.” The spell blade stared hard at her alchemist companion, as if some semblance of conscience was catching up with her. “If it's bunsens ye need, Ah can gie it fur ye.” She would bear the brunt of the darkness that lay dormant just beneath the surface of the criminal underworld. El considered the consequences of letting him get himself wrapped up in the uglier side of illicit activity; she had had to succumb to this world, and that was her own mistake. Eleanor knew all-too-well what the Oracle and her leagues of dark minions were capable of, and thus far, the blonde-haired woman had managed to stay, more or less, under her radar. “Ye hae tae be absolutely sure ye want tae dae thes, Hudson.”

Hudson grunts in response to Eleanor's comment that she doesn't intend to come by his place. Some threat that is. "Pretty sure that's for the best," he remarks vaguely, and without needing to go any further trusts that she knows just what he means. An uncomfortable carriage ride was enough. And then suddenly she's grabbed his hand and is earnestly talking at him. Her accent as usual trips him up, and understanding took a second to bleed into his expression. Woah, she's concerned about him. Touching. Except the way this works in his head, he's just an artist, not responsible for how the artwork gets distributed, or fought over, or hunted down and destroyed. All he does is show up and make art. He squeezes her hand in a heartfelt enough way before letting it drop. Punctuates the small act with a rueful smile, the cant of his head. "It's gonna be fine, Eleanor, you just be the buffer between me and these people and we all good," he answers her, his gaze holding hers. He puts his hand in the pocket, trying to diffuse the moment. "I'm just trying to use my skills. Nothin's gonna happen." He grins at her, leaving it at that. "C'mon, show me this place. I got to go back to Alvina after, she prob thinks I'm picking up food for dinner."

Eleanor could tell that something was eating at Hudson; their whole interaction seemed jaded, on glass shards, fragile egg shells. She wondered for a moment if it was due to his scheme to “get rich quick”, as she saw it, even if she hadn’t yet worked out the details of what he wanted to do -- or if it was something closer to him. She examined him shrewdly, the gem in her diadem seeming to catch any semblance of light and reflect it around, glinting and dancing in vague shadows. When he withdrew his hand from hers, she tucked it, along with its partner, across her chest, and stuck out a hip, boots firmly, stubbornly planted. El wasn’t certain that he would, in fact, be fine. She had been purposefully nebulous in the restaurant -- no moreso than usual, however, but now, as he stood on the brink of seeing a little bit more of her world, she felt caught in a rather uncomfortable position. Of course she knew the “sketchy people” he so desired, and of course she would broker a meeting, but at what cost? Hudson had to be strong if he was to enter an agreement with the underbelly, had to give it a good strokes like a puppy, coddle it and then run like hellhounds were after your very soul. She hoped that, if nothing else, his adventure to the dark side would be brief. It was the mention of Alvina which eventually brought about a smirk, full lips tempted into a sly remark that she only just kept at bay. “Ah, och aye, hae tae rin haem tae yer baa an' chain lest she hear ay uir wee date.” She turned from him, then, and ducked into an alleyway, fully expecting Hudson to be on her tail. Rounding the tall brick and shrouding herself in the shadows their height granted her, her grin seemed to have returned, albeit her eyes were void of the warmth. “Ye ever teel anyain whaur tae fin' me, ur hoo tae gie in tooch wi' me, Ah dornt caur hoo bonnie ye ur, Ah will make yer life huir uv a crabbit.” The threat was punctuated by a sly wink, and she withdrew her wand from its holster at her hip. The crystals -- those very same he had once upon a time mended for the spell blade (which she has of course not forgotten) -- were a vibrant cerulean now, throbbing with inner light as they itched to be put to good use. Eleanor looked past the alchemist then, and convinced they were safe for the time being, she aimed the crystal wand at the backdoor of a local shop. The tip of her wand touched the doorknob, which crackled and turned to a large sapphire; the rest of the door seemed unchanged. “Noo 'main 'en, let's gang afair someain sees us.” Without another word, she holstered the wand once more, gripped the doorknob, turned it and pushed in.

The other side of the door was definitely not a shop; in fact, it didn’t appear to be on the same level as the shop either. Somewhere else in Cenril, high in the forgotten attic of some regional noble’s city homestead, Eleanor had taken up refuge, the door merely a temporary portal her secret hideout. The spell blade was quick to usher Hudson in, the door knob already returned to its previous state seconds before she closed it behind him. With a cheeky grin, she waved a hand across the expanse, and said, “Welcome tae mah humble abode.” Although sparsely furnished, a bed off in one corner, a tub in another, and boxes upon boxes of forgotten belongings, it was home to her, for now.Beyond the bed were several windows which granted a wide panorama of Cenril itself, a view Eleanor was quite proud of, and to where she now moved to stand, glancing briefly out before fixing Hudson with her hooded, celadon stare.

“Th' rules fur reachin' me ur simple: ne'er knock oan th' front duir, ne'er attempt tae send mail, an' ... if ye absolutely main contact me fur a quickie--” Her eyes sparkled at the jest, “at leest use th' staine.” Of course, that stone would be their primary method of contact -- she provided it then, and it would fit easily in Hudson’s palm, a smooth, round stone that looked plucked from the cobbled streets outside, and on one side with a circle, carefully engraved in its surface and filled with a dark, unreflective material. “Ye hauld it, spick th' nam ye wish tae see, an' - poof, it will tak' ye tae them.”

Hudson's eyes take a quick roll about in his head at Eleanor's ribbing on the subject of Alvina. Ball and chain she may feel like right now, with all her struggles, but she's his ball and chain, Sven darn it. Before he can even begin to craft a witty response, she's darted away, and he shuffles after her, coming to a skidding halt as she addresses him again, albeit in a different tone. He holds up his hands. "Chill, I won't," he tells her, his tone serious. He shoots her a leveled look and then watches as she opens a door to a place that definitely didn't seem it would be there. He steps inside, and finds to his surprise that her place is nicer than he'd thought it would be. He stands at the window, and realizes that the view seems a bit like his mum's neighborhood. "How did you do that?" he begins to ask, but puts the question in reserve as she's explaining the rules of engagement. As if he'd just bust in on her place. He throws her a look that says as much. He rolls the stone between two fingers, feeling the fine heft of it. It was valuable, if the magic contained in it could be believed. He'd have to test it with Alvina or his mum, since randomly appearing beside them would not be as alarming as testing it on anybody else. He puts it in his pocket. That wouldn't do long-term. He should probably put it on a chain or something. "Penalty box," he says belatedly, in an obvious reference to her quickie comment. Drawing breath, he nods, back to the real matter at end. "Thanks. I think I got it. Hopefully I don't bother you when you're otherwise engaged on a personal matter," he lifts his eyebrows and leaves it at that. "I'll ping you when we're ready to make a hand off? Tell your people it's market wholesale rate?"

Eleanor was certainly not about to reveal the secrets of her craft to Hudson, no matter how she may (or may not) feel about him, and so although he’d asked her ‘how’, she did her best to ignore the query. With the right corner of her full lips shifting upward into a smirk, she rested her hands on her hips, looking up at him. “Thes penalty box ye spick ay ... whit is it?” she asked him in return. “Is it …--” Cue a raise of one blonde brow, “fin?” Soon, though, he was changing the subject back to business, and the woman snickered beneath her breath. With a wink, she remarked, “Ye ur th’ only personal matter Ah’ve got.” Aye, the saucy minx. Of course, they were concluding said business now, and she drifted away from him, moving toward where a small, nondescript arched doorway stood, as if that was Hudson’s cue to depart. “It will tak’ ye tae th’ markit,” she offered up, chin held high lest anything she do be taken seriously. Pointing her crystal wand at the small brass knob, it, like before, turned into a faceted sapphire gem -- the girl did love her pretty blue rocks. “Next time we meit, thocht, Ah’ll expect a sample ay thes product.” Stepping away from the door, she sized up Hudson -- or perhaps, she was committing this ‘innocent’ body of his to memory, just in case things turned south in their new arrangement. “Diz it hae a nam?” Beat. “Yer product. Whit dae ye caa it?”

Hudson shoots Eleanor a dry look when she asks what the penalty box is. He thinks she knows well enough what he means, sports metaphor or no, and his throat rumbles in a low grunt as she calls him a personal matter. "Girl, you know what I mean," he says with another weighted stare her way. He moves to the arched doorway, turns to sling her a grin. "Not yet, maybe we'll think of something," he comments, closing one eye in a wink as his hand closes around the door knob, opens it. "Thanks," he adds. He steps out, back into the wild frenzy of the market.

Part of the The Dust Up In Cenril Arc