RP:The Handmaid's Tale

Part of the Seven Dwarves All Around Me Arc

This is a Rogue's Guild RP.

Summary: Eleanor and Leoxander return to Frostmaw ahead of his fight against Shishi in the Titans of Winter Tournament. There, they run into Loravelle, who weaves a story about the depraved Demon's preparations.

The Monk's Room, Frostmaw Tavern

If there's a word for this room, it's probably minimalism. Its soft, airy bed takes up the left corner, leaving an almost absurd amount of space unused. An antique dresser is the only piece of furniture, although the closet is filled almost to bursting with swords, shields and savory meats. It's an awkward room, fit for awkward tastes, with a fireplace that's often gone cold from lack of use.

Loravelle – There is a clash of cultures occurring within Loravelle's room. With the door left unlocked due to the frequency of her deceased master's children and grandchildren filing in and out of the makeshift altar space that her room had hastily been repurposed for, she didn't feel the need to even keep the door entirely closed. The air is clouded with heady incense. Cold fireplace has been lit for the first time since her arrival to Frostmaw. Loravelle can be seen kneeling before the hearth to feed the last pieces of carefully folded joss paper into the flames. Without the appropriate funerary white robes she would wear if she were home, the maid has borrowed the clothing of her mother's people in pitch black, a color she assumes in Lithrydel is appropriate for mourning. She is still covered from chin to ankle, only the changbao has been replaced with a black abaya, the loose material cinched at the waist with a plain belt. Her hair is unraveled from its elaborate styling, but hidden beneath a veil wrapped tight about her head so only her face is visible. The maid's expression is caught somewhere between saddened and relieved. Readjusting her position on the floor, Lora draws her legs up to her chest, resting one side of her face against her knee and angled in a way that she can see the door. Her hand blindly feels for the neck of her pipa, comforting and ever present at her side on the floor, tugging it closer. What to do now?

Eleanor arrived in Frostmaw by the quickest route she had available to her, her favorite way to travel even when Leoxander sometimes felt otherwise, and into the back room of the tavern, she suddenly stepped, her right palm glowing faintly through her leather glove with the remnants of her portal-ink. Once securing the key to their room, she left Leoxander downstairs, anxious to unload the heavy, bulky knapsack hanging from her right shoulder. She didn't notice the heady incense fog rolling out of the eastern room up the first few steps. It all but blended into the smoky atmosphere of the tavern floor itself, and a particular herbal scent no doubt clouded her olfactory anyway, clinging to the cerulean leathers she wore over a black-on-black ensemble. But as she approached the landing, the smell was more pungent, unique from those vying for attention downstairs. For a moment, the spellrogue's thoughts went to Tessa and her chili powder concoction, worried that the changeling had turned a new kind of rogue on their kind, and a trap lay waiting for them. Of course, once her tall black boots had breached the second-floor corridor, her sharp sea-glass eyes moved warily toward Lora's room, spying the girl kneeling before the fireplace. Eleanor's eyes rolled skyward, a curse mumbled underneath her breath, and she quietly approached the doorway to lean casually against the frame. It was not difficult to ascertain a certain Mood coming from the room, the pall of death hanging in the pregnant fog of aroma. She had seen how skittish Loravelle had been; El had every plan to lean on that, but if she had gone barging in right now, the girl was liable to catch the whole room on fire in her flailing. The queen of rogues wasn't a heartless beast all the time. And so she waited, arms folding under her chest, features neutral save the hooded stare she leveled on the maid.

Leoxander wasn’t stepping from the cold and shaking melted snow off his jacket, nor was he steaming from the heat his lycanthrope blood generated. He mysteriously followed Eleanor into the tavern from the back room, drawing a suspicious and familiar glare from Drargon, which didn’t phase the rogue in the least. Drawing down his face cover to reveal slightly stubbled features, he adjusted the heavy satchel on his back. While the large barkeep turned to busy himself and ignore the criminal, the bar maiden who had no animosity with the man (maybe even a bit of girlish appreciation), leaned to try to distract the wolf with some healthy assets that tended to assist in the haul of monetary gratuity, on most occasions. Leo wasn’t phased by that, either. But did lean in a bit in return to murmur his request in a low tone, sliding over a few coins as two corked bottles were passed his way. A mere minute behind, he began to ascend the stairs following the spellrogue’s scent, and a second familiar aroma revealed who still occupied the second floor room. Something was different about it, a tweak only a wolf sensitive nose might pick up on. Full of energy and recovered from his prior duel, the pirate took the steps two at a time with barely a clunk of thick-tread boots, and slowed on the upstairs hallway as he witnessed Eleanor’s pause at the open door he had repaired a week or so prior. Brow furrowed, his taller form halted behind the woman’s curvy frame, his darker silhouette fairly obvious to whom it might be in her company. Like his fellow crow, he didn’t alert Loravelle with a sound beyond maybe a small creak of floorboards under his weight, but cast a look toward the Fox and back to the fragile, mourning human feeding a fire that might catch his eyes in that predator’s flickering glow.

Loravelle immediately rises at the sound of approaching footsteps. Someone, another patron of the inn, had briskly walked down the hall right past Eleanor and Leoxander, the door, and presumably down the stairs. Lora mistook this for someone on their way into her room. Normally she could pick out who in the family may be coming based on their footfalls, but she didn't try this time. These were too fast to pick up, but a floorboard. Mistress Hailan had been flitting in and out of every room they had rented out at the tavern and likely every other inn they secured rooms in across the city throughout the day, to make sure everything and everyone in their group was keeping themselves together. Naturally it must be her again. Now upright, the maid keeps her head dipped low and quietly greets. “Wǒ zài zhè, Haila-oh.” Nobody is there, the maid realizes, tilting her head just enough to look. She is not here to serve Hailan, it seems. The door hadn't swung inward. Frowning, she pads forward on her bare feet, hand extending to rest on the doorknob and pull it open. “Zhǔ er?” she whispers. “Hailan?” Pressing her palm flat against the door instead to ease it shut, she cycles through possibilities. Her sisters or the kids wanted to get one more prank in before they began the long trek back to Gualon. The wolf was back to fullfil his threat of hunting her. His...wife? The woman with the accent. She must have told him to eat her and he's here to do just that. Shishi found her and decided he wanted to keep her. Her shoulders sag, and she makes a terrible mistake. Peering through the gap in the door, she catches a glimpse of those horrible, predatory eyes. An audible gasp follows, and she takes several steps back, veiled head jerking to look behind her to the window that she wants to leap out of. There very likely isn't time for her to try, given how fast Leo and El likely are compared to her. This would be her end then, she believes. Like a deer caught in lantern light, she freezes in place, wide eyed, trembling, and awaiting the worst.

Eleanor sensed Leoxander's approach apart from the other people who traveled the floor. Her chin turned along a shoulder, eyes cutting past as that familiar smirk settled into the corner of her mouth, and she leaned back on a heel. "Looks loch we micht hae a mukker fur tonecht." Her voice was carried on little more than a whisper into the narrow space between herself and the wolf. In the next beat, that door edged wider open, drawing the spellrogue's attention to slant toward it in time to catch the sight of Loravelle stumbling backwards. "Och," she grunted at Leo, "coods hae bit oan 'at. Woods be rich as royals." The girl's predictable skittishness didn't deter her for long; if anything, Eleanor fed on that nervous energy as her vague smirk was traded for a wicked grin. She gently pushed the door further open in passing, her gloved hands going up in a defensive, unassuming gesture, palms toward the girl. "We did nae pure techt tae interrupt yer wee …" The spellrogue did not do well with religious rituals, like this was starting to look like as her gaze swept around the room. She struggle for a beat to find the right word that wouldn't set the girl off even more. "Affair. Jist, uh …" The queen of rogues was in a strange mood when her eyes drifted toward Leo and back to the handmaiden. Although she suddenly started forward brusquely, El aimed to reach for the girl's wrist with a touch that was kinder than she seemed capable of at first — provided the girl didn't scratch her eyes out like a cornered cat. "Ah hud a wee favur tae ask ye." Her voice had dropped, softening around the husky words as she tried to impress upon Loravelle a non-threatening guise in contrast to her usual stab-you-in-the-face-over-tea demeanor. "If ye hae th' time tae hear it."

Leoxander only raised a dark brow at Loravelle’s initial reaction, the other knit down to squint one of those gleaming eyes. They dropped in and out of sight pending the angle of light as he eased a step back, figuring it was the best thing to do before the servant girl pissed her funeral attire. He gave his partner a look that was definitely dark, a certain tension ticking at the corner of his jaw just enough to relay some secret disappointment with her remark. There was enough on the horizon of tomorrow for the pirate, but a sigh through his large, vaguely spotted nose would be the coincidence of a ‘whatever’, or a sarcastic ‘greaat’. Sympathy and compassion weren’t well versed to the wolf, but it quickly became apparent that death had occured in Loravelle’s world, and given the decrepit state of the crotchety blaggard she’d served, it wouldn’t take much for him to put the pieces together. “She could use a bloody drink…” Was the deep murmur for Eleanor’s ears, under his breath, and remembering the grip he had on those bottles, he bit and spit the cork of one to take a swig of potent rum, the intense bite of the brew just barely laced with it’s sweeter aftertaste. Whether he wanted to dose her for her sorrows or her nerves, liquor was a versatile medicine in his mind. Idly wondering just how much of the spellrogue’s words the girl understood, he watched the Fox play at the facade of a motherly role, and only after a moment did he step into the room with a thief’s intent, keeping a wide berth of the two toward the window of the room that wasn’t probably no longer cracked open in a night the girl was working for a fire. In particular, the rogue was seeking out a case that Lora’ had offered him a smoke from on his last visit, and should it still be sitting there, meant to help himself to one as he observed what happened next.

Loravelle knows better than to scream. She's cornered. Her voice didn't carry far and it wouldn't do much to stop either of them. Switching to Common, she stammers, on the verge of tears. “Let them find my b-body so they can send me back...back home, pleas-” Initially immobile, she flinches when Eleanor reaches for her wrist. It takes her some time to understand the words the queen of rogues says. A favor? ...The money? Of course, they can take it all if it means that they'll leave her unscathed. Lora doesn't really believe that they will, but the thought makes her feel just a hair less afraid. Finding enough feeling in her legs again to move, she steps back just enough to reach the bed, crouch, and shove her hand underneath the mattress. All of it. Including her half. The coin purses are tossed to the floor with a heavy thunk. It's only then that she notices Leo prowling somewhere in her periphery. She wants to weep. Taking labored breaths, the maid tries to focus, take stock of what she can see and hear. The cigarettes! Lora can give those away as well. “I..I have...” her feeble voice trails off. Leoxander seems to have found them already. “Keep them,” stammers the girl, defeated.

Eleanor watched the girl with growing exasperation, caught between sad amusement and sympathy. She didn't know Loravelle quite like Leo did, and in the girl's defense, the spellrogue had spent much of their brief times together trying to get under her skin. In the end, El didn't venture closer, nor did she withdraw. "Nine hells," she eventually grumbled, shooting Leo a side-glance that may as well have said, "Drown her in this alcohol already or so help me!" before fixing her pale green eyes on the girl. "Nae a body is daein' anythin' wi' yer body tonecht, nae if Ah can help it." Eleanor's mood had little to do with Loravelle, although she found she didn't have as much patience as she thought. Exhaling a terse breath, Eleanor tried a new tactic. A more direct one, one she was far more familiar with. She arched a brow at the coin purses and then promptly pointed at the nearest seat. "Alrecht, Lora," the Queen of Crows began, her tone deliberately slow and leaving little room for interpreting her intentions. "Yoo're gonnae sit doon now." The spellrogue was prepared to stare the girl down until she obliged, and only as Leoxander found those cigarettes, she shifted her attention toward him; questions arose, but her steely green regard quickly returned to Loravelle. "An' 'en th' three ay us ur gonnae hae a wee chat."

Leoxander was already in the process of putting one to his lips and finding his firestarter in back pocket to light it, with that satisfying snip of tin lid hinged back into place before he tucked it away again. Maybe that stool would be conveniently still in the same spot also, so he could ease into it while he watched Eleanor waste time. Well, he wouldn’t say as much to her face, because her madness typically came with a method, but he intended to put a dent in a bottle in the time he was meant to wait. Should some water cup be convenient on the same table as what few belongings remained, he took a hands free toke of the tobacco while he poured a finger’s width into the vessel, clean or not, and lazily leaned forward to extend an arm and it Eleanor’s way, for the girl. He figured that a meager bit of tonic might loosen her tongue and unwind her tension well enough, without dropping her head onto her pillow or worse. Still, the rogue’s blue eyes sought his lover’s with just enough squinted wrinkles to question exactly what she planned to chat about, especially after their brief, one on one spat just the day before. Pinching the rolled smoke from his lips he bumped back an elbow into the window just to creak it open a crack, and probably more so for the strong incense smell than the cloud wafting around his seated spot. Sensitive nose, and all.

Loravelle knew this tone of voice well, having heard it from others. This was preferable, surprisingly. But what she is ordered to do is not orderly at all. It's absolutely wrong. Eleanor should be the one sitting, not her. Yet down she goes without question, settling onto the bed with hands folded neatly in her lap, poised for orders. The trembling is gone. Fear lingers as always, but there's little that could suppress that. Her hand lifts to point at the far corner of the room. “T-there's a stool if yo-...” She shouldn't be saying this. What Lora should be doing is walking over to retrieve it, returning with it so either Eleanor or Leo can take it, then standing while whoever didn't occupy the stool sat on the bed. This is entirely wrong. She fidgets, compulsion wanting to take over. So she'll have to speak then. More deep breaths, eyes glued to the floor. Hushed, she asks, “What do you want from me?” A drink is poured and passed to Eleanor, she observes. Instinctively, Loravelle believes it to be poison. Or perhaps medicine? That was the cup she had been using lately... Uncertain, she affixes her timid gaze somewhat on Eleanor, but primarily on the empty space between them. Absolutely nowhere near Leoxander. “I have nothing of value,” this is false, she realizes. Her pipa, resting on the floor beside the bed. As much as she would like to hold it like some sort of security blanket, she remains seated, still, bracing for something.

Eleanor watched as Loravelle obediently took a seat, and there was a slight easing of her shoulders with relief. The spellrogue had many faces she could present with, and although she enjoyed being direct with needed, there was a tiny twinge of actual empathy with the girl's apparent submission. "Alrecht, thaur we gang," she nodded encouragingly. Leaving the stool to Leo, she took the glass offered, sharing a nod with her partner, before turning to approach Lora slowly. Something in the girl's frightened look gave her pause, and she quickly tipped back the glass to sample the drink before reaching it toward the maid. "See? Nae gonnae hurt ye." Carefully, she shifted herself closer, balancing half a cheek on the very edge of the bed. "An' Ah'm nae haur tae tak' yer things either, loove." Eleanor angled her chin down, sparing another glimpse toward Leo, then back to Lora again. "Ye ken Ah've seen ye at his fights. Gart quite a killin' at th' lest a body, bettin' oan heem." El's booted toe nudged at the coin purses. "Ah tak' it ye intend tae gang tae tomorrow's?"

Leoxander had already drunk from the same bottle, so unless he was using his werewolf status to trick her and willingly go through a sickness himself a day before his duel, Loravelle’s paranoia was not exactly merited. Then again, this sprat seemed scared of her own shivering shadow. Resting into his forward slouch with arms draped over his knees and toward the center of them, the bottle dangled in the grip of his bandaged and gloved left hand while he occasionally lifted the right to burn away that tobacco at a patient pace, sometimes spitting a fleck of brown plant from the tip of his tongue with a short, sharp breath. Finishing off the last drag, he thumped the base of the bottle on the table beside him and eventually eased into a lean back against the wall with arms resting casually across the top of his ribs, concealed weapons felt against the knuckles of his thumbs. Chin angled downward, blond in his eyes, he chimed in for only a moment to mention. “She don’ like answerin’ much but she sure as hell likes to spew ‘em out.” He was mildly curious about the exact cause of her lord’s sudden demise, and took a moment to take in any subtle details of the room that might look out of place or provide a clue. Something had his hackles ready to raise but he couldn’t place a reason for that confusing sixth sense.

Loravelle hesitantly accepts the glass Eleanor offers, but not before reaching into the cuff of her right sleeve for the hidden pocket sewn in there. A flash of pure silver appears; A thin and dull tester, entirely harmless. It doesn't cross her mind that this may appear threatening with a lycan in the room, especially since she is trying very hard to pretend that he isn't there. Especially when he speaks. Holding the glass in one hand, she dips the needle in and waits a moment. Withdrawing it, the maidservant carefully turns it to observe if there is any discoloration. None. It's safe. Tucking it away again, she takes a sip and winces at the taste. Lightweight that she most definitely is, she won't finish the rest of the glass. Why is Eleanor behaving like this, she wonders, suspicious. This had every single red flag for what she and the other girls that served back home affectionately called 'pawn talk'. A superior draws you into their grasp for a favor, and if something goes awry then the pawn takes the hit. Having navigated the choppy waters of trying to appease one person while not offending their foes for years, Loravelle knew this was a dance she could dance, to a degree. Folk around here played different. Their words and mannerisms didn't always make sense. Curse cultural differences. Lora's head shakes a bit. She won't be at the fight tomorrow. “I leave before the sun rises.” They're probably fishing for more than that. “Mister Bradley gave himself to the Titan, like he wanted. Others too...” As she relives the scene, her eyes snap shut and she grips the glass. Her memory typically, at least to her, seemed clear as crystal, but talking overwhelmed her. Especially in a nightmarish situation such as this. “There were hundreds of people. Frost giants. Offering him body parts. ...He might have ate them as well.” She fled when the deed was done and couldn't say for certain.

Eleanor's brows knit in her disbelief as Loravelle still went through all the motions of testing the drink in some way. But then she supposed it was not entirely outlandish that two suspicious characters might have a tolerance to poisons (valid for both, to some degree). She shared a look with Leoxander before settling that piercing stare on the girl again. "Nae?" El scoffed, her lip curling with growing agitation, and Leo was given another, sharper look. "Go-fecking-figure," the queen of rogues grumbled, standing upright. She took a half-pace toward the center of the room, then turned toward Leo, a dark frown pulling at her full red lips. Eleanor wasn't sure she believed Shishi had taken care of /hundreds/ of people in the way Lora described, but her chest was tight all the same. Her eyes searched the pirate a moment, her lips twitching, the muscle in her jaw feather. With a soft grunt, she pivoted on a booted heel, her hands finding the full swell of her hips as she lowered that cutting gaze to Loravelle. "Och aye, loove," she corrected the girl at length. "Yoo'll be thaur, if ye ken whit's guid fur ye." Beat. "Th' things ye claim tae hae seen ... weel. Yoo're gonnae see a lot mair suin, but somethin' tells me yoo'll survife." She kicked at the coin purse again. "Thaur is a lot mair gauld in it fur ye, if ye can keep yer een open an' yer gob shut."

Loravelle – “I – I don't think he ate all of them...Just the line of people. There were hundreds in the line,” she corrects herself. Loravelle clutches the glass in her hand close so as to not spill it, slapping the palm of the other hand over its top when Eleanor swears. She jumped, and didn't want the contents to go everywhere. “I c-can't...I -” It's a rarity for her to say the word no, and she cannot bring herself to do it now. But she knows she can't stay. Downstairs, just outside, the carriages are being loaded up. It's as if she has shut off her thinking brain. More orders. More automatic, subservient responses. “I do not know what is good for me, Miss. I am dim-witted.” She exhales. “I will see what you permit me to. My life is yours to mold or destroy.” The notion of seeing and not speaking elicit an automatic response in kind, though it sounds odd to the maidservant's ears when recited in Common. “If you allow for me to know, I will know only in my heart, never in my mouth.” She won't talk. “But I can't stay.”

Leoxander definitely noticed the silver, especially with how much it had been a burden to his health as of late, but he wasn’t ready to enrage and slap it out of her hand just yet. Innocent as the girl might appear, the pirate knew just how deceiving some could be with their demeanor. In fact, as he watched her careful measure, he could actually appreciate that she had the sense to be cautious when it came to the criminal pair. Still listening from his quiet corner near the window, he might be somewhat off put by the fact that she intended not to attend, but the words that followed was what drew a calculated stare trained on the human girl. Shishi had made some effort to prepare, and that was nothing that truly caught the wolf off guard. He had spent time with the fellow rogue who had earned a more acclaimed title over the years. But there was a memory from several years back of their battle and their defeat of a frost born dragon that had added difficulty to the bout, and the necessary cooperation that still resulted in Leo’s loss. The demon was almost foreign to him, now. It was likely the pirate had changed quite a bit, as well. Eleanor’s look was met with that slight, roguish nod that lacked the smirk this time around. The titan did not mean to lose his praise. “Bullsh*t.” Yeah, he said it, in response to that ‘dim-witted’ response. Like the day he’d forfeit a fur lined coat that had no sentimental value, he had determined this fearful individual had seen more than she let onto, and he cast a brief look of blue to the spellrogue as though punctuating a point. Unspoken. Now it was time for Leoxander to stand up, and rather than crowd the maiden space alongside Eleanor, he crouched to find something beside burning sticks or traditional timber to stoke the fire back into a comforting flame. “That what you want, sprat? Go back to your land and find yourself claimed again? I heard your strings when you played." He didn’t pressure too much. In fact, despite the event on the horizon, he seemed pretty well at ease, even with that new bit of information. “Don’t you got a lick of greed for your own livin’?”

Eleanor was inclined to agree with the Captain on the matter of Loravelle's artless facade. Her grin had grown, broad as it could in that dimpled, freckled, sinful face of hers. "He reit?" she asked Lora, her tone a combination of sly and careful, curious. Maybe a twinge of something else Leo might recognize or feel through his blue rune. "Ye return, ye jist become someain else's property again, eh? Ye want tae bide a maid aw yer life, lit someain else teel ye whit tae dae?" As the spellrogue herself appeared to be doing. But in this case, Eleanor's goal was, in fact, to set the girl free. She lowered herself onto the bed next to Lora, as gingerly as she could in an affectedly unassuming way, turning to address her with that ever-present smirk now tempered somewhat. "Yer life isnae gonnae be mine, loove," Eleanor affirmed, her voice low but rolling with a deliberate cadence. "Yer life is yer own, if yoo'll hae it. Yoors tae mauld, nae a body else's." Her lips started to spread a little wider again, and her gaze flit toward Leo and back to the girl. "Ay coorse, we'd pay ye handsomely if yoo're willin' tae gie those een tha' moorns nicht." And maybe after tomorrow night, too.

Leoxander chimed in with, "The hell we will." She'd have to earn her keep, if it was up to the pirate, but there was a reason he wasn't the 'Queen of Crows'.

Loravelle is just rattling off the list of excuses she had drilled into her head to use in the event a master needed to be appeased. “I am useless. Worthless. I deserve death.” Her voice is just as quiet as always, now flat. Distant. Though somewhat gone mentally, she is genuinely surprised to not feel the all too familiar sting of one of a hand striking her face yet. Of all things, a swear assisted in yanking her from her depths. She hears his question, brows knit. “I want for little. ...I told you this before,” she stiffly replies, unintentionally. Not entirely back yet, but her memory is intact, sharp as ever. A font from which she can draw from again. The maid parrots bits of her replies to his questioning verbatim from the night she asked him questions. In her eyes she sees the flash of a gold coin exchanging hands, but that was from before. Not now. “My heart is tended to in different ways. My music, singing. Flying kites. Getting enough sleep if I can.” She doesn't yawn this time. Instead she recalls her words some more. “We have a way of saying things...Those above us are of the clouds. Below, mud. I am of mud. Lesser.” Instead of making the vague gesture at the space between the lycan and herself like she had at the time, this time it's made toward Eleanor once the woman is settled by her. “I don't have the time for,” she makes a vague gesture with her hand at the space she and the queen of rogues. “couplings, so I write about it. Sing about it. It has served me well so far.” In the present again, her head shakes slowly. “No greed. I only want enough to get by with some comfort. I like taking care of people.” For the first time that evening, a shy smile appears. “...What one likes or takes fancy in is often dictated by others.”

Leoxander was losing his patience. Ironically, this all seemed too familiar. She wasn’t the first wreckage the pirate had pulled from the pits at such a young age, believable or not. There was a list. Carter, Caedan, Angelo, Lu-... well, names didn’t matter, because after a few his mind went blank. “So you said. An’ I’m not sure we have time for a mind you can’t break into on yer own, kid. This here is one of your sonnets. Never too pretty at first, but worth an end whether it’s tragic or strange.” He fell quiet there to let his better half take the floor of the lecture, though Leo wasn’t really one to lecture at all. He didn’t have the time on his agenda to be convincing others of their competence. All that he had, he’d discovered mostly on his own, with a few recent exceptions, perhaps. The wolf finally stood, stared at the fire that had been renewed and crackled with his prodding. Something he wouldn’t afford the self-shamed servant. It wasn’t as though he could not imagine himself in her position - it was more that he had not accepted or complied to it so willingly. “I’m goin’ to bed.” He made his way to take up one bottle, the uncorked and half drained one left behind, and made his way toward the door. Carrying with him that the blue demon, once his ally, had taken necessary precautions to defeat his rival.

Eleanor wasn't far behind Leoxander. There was something about Loravelle's mannerisms, something that poked and prickled against the spellrogue's mind, her memories. And it was not making her feel any better about this engagement. She cut a side-glance toward Leo when he spoke up, part of her wanting to remind him that talking to the girl was, in fact, his idea. But in the end, it was Lora who earned the full brunt of Fox's sharp-as-seaglass stare. "Tonecht, yoo're jist mud, loove. But tha' moorns nicht?" Eleanor's sculpted shoulders shrugged under the layers of leather, layers which absorbed more than reflected any nearby light. "Ye coods be mair. Ye coods be a buird, flies free wi' puckle ... crows." She was trying to temper her expression, a mix of impatience and pity, and with a tense exhale, she leaned forward, snatching up the bags of money as she rose to her feet. "Ah'm sure we can fin' somethin' tae dae wi' yer winnings." She pivoted toward the door, hands searching for a tin case in her belt. "In th' meantime, mebbe ye ooght tae sleep oan it. Mebbe yoo'll decide ye loch takin' caur ay auld Leo haur—" She spared a wry smirk for her lover, eyes fixing on Loravelle immediately thereafter. "—Wanna shaur those peepers wi' us tha' moorns nicht." There would be no goodbye, no goodnight. Her gloved left hand grasped the tin case now, and she was already through the door.

Loravelle – “A mind...you can't break into?” Loravelle lofts a brow. She doesn't think she understands, then... Oh. Her memory. He thinks she's crazy. Maybe Eleanor too. This...This may be very beneficial for pushing them away so she won't have to talk anymore. Particularly him, the walking nightmare, but this is not at all the route the maidservant expected to go. Her own calmness perturbs her. Why haven't they killed her already? Were they genuinely interested in her, of all people? Eleanor seemed to be. She could be a bird? Perhaps she could, but mud she would remain for now. Insisting that she is boring was the usual tactic to keep strangers away. In truth, she really believed that she was. Setting the unfinished glass down on the floor by her feet, and scoots away from Eleanor just enough across the bed to grab at her pipa. Instrument hefted up onto the bed, she unties the ribbon attaching Leo's feather to one of the tuning pegs. She'll try leaning into this crazy schtick. What's a musician and a dancer without a bit of theatrics, after all? She could keep her true face obscured long ago with veils and tricks of light. There was no magic then, and none now. Though without a mask, Lora realizes, she can't hide the very real fear and timidness that impress themselves upon her nearly at all times. But she'll try. “Before you leave, Mousai,” Lora calls, projecting her voice well above its usual, softer volume. It wavers. The fear has returned almost full tilt with the realization that she must get up and approach him. Both of them, she notes. And they're taking the money. Excellent. Loose ends are being snipped away. With her feet bare, Eleanor might see flashes of blue on the underside of her feet as she walks. Should she reach the lycan in time, she presents the crow's feather to him. “I cannot keep this. You're taking the money, and this loose end remains. Now we are...square?” She heard the word's usage in this context before, but is uncertain if she uses it properly now. “And I am no longer indebted to you for it. We part here.” Bluntly, she doesn't want to see him again. As it appears that Eleanor is leaving, she tries to say goodbye, but is too late.

Leoxander turned a last time to look toward the dark feather he’d awarded her. He had no interest in it, really, but despite his better sense of carelessness, he reached out to take the frilled quill and focused his stoic gaze on hers as he twisted it between thumb and forefinger. “When you’re ready for it, then… you’ll need to earn it.” And if she didn’t show up the next day and he never saw her again, so be it. The pirate had been mistaken a time or two before. No goodbye from his end, either. The rogue moved on toward the room where he would await his trials the next day.

Eleanor started shaking her head as soon as they'd left Lora's room, appending hand-rolled cigarette to her crimson pout but waiting until she had unlocked their suite before sparking it up. She threw her bulky knapsack on the bed in passing it and moved immediately toward one of the windows, cracking it open. El leaned back against the windowsill, one ankle crossed over the other as she lifted her gloved hands, igniting the end of the spliff. She exhaled over her shoulder into the crisp Frostmaw air before finally edging a glance sidelong toward her companion, wherever he'd found himself in their room. "Dornt hink Ah need tae say it, dae Ah?"

Leoxander was a moment behind her in his step, and he closed the door behind them with a lock at the bolt, though he guessed she might find some other means of security on that space. “When you’re right, you’re right. I still can’t help but think she’s trained like the royal dogs.” He was not ever one to know the life of luxury, but his half brother had, and he’d scaled the castle walls a time or two to witness it, first hand. Even her compliant pair showed those signs of submission and devotion, whether she rewarded them or not. “She’s no use to us, like that.” Yet… and it was a hard ‘yet’ in his mind. “She gave us some knowledge. He’s ready for a fight.” It was a hard pill to swallow. Shishi had once been his equal, and now the revenant was superior, in belief. “Our plan might just disarm him a bit, but I can’t be sure.” And win or lose… “You still can’t break an’ rush to me, whatever might happen. Not if we want this to work.” The bottle he’d brought along was set down, but Leo didn’t really feel like a drink. At last he could lay down his satchel and bow, and peeled away some layers to unharness his knives, revealing a scarred and inked upper torso though he kept his pants on, for now. A glance around the room and he determined it safe, but immediately went toward the sink after a rummage for a straight blade to prepare for his usual tradition. “I don’t care what state you see me in. You follow through.” he said, as he began to lay down the usual instruments and soaps that he provided himself in those precursor moments. “Promise me that. Or this ain’t gonna work.”

Eleanor dragged at the spliff through two more long lungfuls of burning plant matter before she spoke again. "Aye … she did." Her gaze tracked Leo as he moved through the room, and pushing the window open a smidge more, she pulled the curtain over it to tamper some of the colder breezes while still keeping the air moving. Smoke wafted after her as she joined the rogue in that side of the room. It was only then that she removed her cloak, tossing it out on the bed without much care before sitting down on it. Keeping the cigarette crimped between her lips, she leaned forward to begin unlacing her boots, her flaxen curls framing her face as they slipped around her shoulders. Her mate's comments had a frown stretching at her lips, but she pinched at the cigarette tighter, taking an inhale of it before she grunted out a cough. Elevating her gaze slowly to regard Leo in the mirror, her husky voice rolled out in a low timbre, "Whit did Ah say lest nicht?"

Leoxander nodded to the last of words as he began the routine, soaking his skin in water and sudding his hands. “I trust you. I guess I just got some nerves…” That was all he could exhale as he began the routine of lathering his features, shouldering some stray hairs aside though it wouldn’t matter if they got a trim, too. “I know you ain’t in favor of this plan but I’ve seen worse, an’ the lil’ bird told you, herself. He’s goin’ all out. It’s gonna draw the crowd.” Sure, his pride wanted the win, but more important was nothing on his spectrum of sins, merely the pull of a spectacle. “You jus’ try to keep your eyes peeled on the crowd, my love.” A pause in that first scrape of blade, and he turned a look over at his lover with a serious, fortified glance. “I meant it.” He stated, solemnly, before he resumed scraping that stubble from his jaw with his eyes barely meeting his own in the polished looking glass.

Eleanor finished unlacing the knee-highs and kicked the boots off altogether. The bedsprings groaned as she moved, rising from the bed to pad barefoot toward the wolf, coming up behind him and to his right side. "He's scared," she told her mate with a sage nod, almost in contrast to the wry smirk pulling at her lips. "Gie heem somethin' tae be scared ay." Her hands settled on Leo's hips from behind as she added, "Jist ye fash yers abit th' barnie, Ah'll fash yerse abit th' crowd." El's right hand left Leo's side to trace from his right elbow up toward his wrist, fingers curling around him. Her brows rose. "Troost me, dae ye?" the spellrogue smirked, reaching for the blade Leo was using to shave in order to take over the ritual, should he allow her to.

Leoxander was just about finished with his traditional shave when she crossed over into his space, and it was that last few strokes that her fingers wrapped over his and in his trust, he forfeit the straight edge to her grip, turning his head and some of his body to face her to allow her to finish the custom that had seemingly saved his skin a time or two. “The more we play it up, the more attention we’ll pull, without bein’ too damn obvious. We know how to startle the sheep.” If he were to lose, it would just be another day in a risk he’d taken signing up in the first place. More important than the title was the aftermath he hoped it would bring, and he was determined an event like this would give them a trail more prominent than the smoke they had been chasing off and on together for too long. “I meant it...” He repeated, again. “An’ you deserve this crown. Not one any privileged royal could afford.” He didn’t think Shishi would end his life, given the opportunity, but there were still words to be spoken.

Eleanor was careful with that straightedge, her strokes as deft and unhurried, meticulous as if she were carving a marble statue, a replica of her lover's visage. "Mah loove," she murmured, using his phrasing this time. "Ur ye pure tryin' tae gezz me actin' advice?" Her crimson lips twisted into a self-satisfied smirk. Pinching the spliff between the fingers of her left hand, she gently guided Leo's chin up to find the last couple of hairs that had escaped. The blade moved with slow and precise strokes, until at last, she pulled away, setting the straightedge at the rim of the sink. Her right hand curled around the edge of the sink, her left pulling the cigarette to her mouth. Throughout the intake, she leveled that pale green gaze up at her lover. "Tha' moorns is gonnae be a big day fur baith ay us."

Leoxander remained more relaxed than still, trusting her with that sharp edge. “Maybe I am. Not like we ain’t used to this skill, pretendin’ somethin’ we’re not. But…” He didn’t finish those words as she finished his shave. It would be hard not to think about her angry in the stands or elsewhere. His head tilted up to expose his throat to her, blue still cast right onto the spellrogue’s green. A hand grasped her wrist to guide that cigarette to his mouth for a hit. “Whatever happens, she’ll never hurt you again…” The wolf said this before he attempted to get that smoke close enough for a pull on it, and he let her finish up the routine he normally did himself - trust enough on that task alone.

Eleanor tilted her wrist, angling the cigarette toward Leo's mouth as she considered his remarks. "Ye willnae hae tae pretend as much, Leo," she told him quietly. "We baith ken those feelings ur still thaur …" Yesterday had made that clear; the foundation for the story was set, enough he wouldn't have to work all that hard to conjure what was necessary to proceed with tomorrow. "Whatever happens tha' moorns nicht ... it's ye an' me in th' end. That's aw 'at matters."