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The seedy underground of Lower Palisade held numerous and equally seedy dives, full of no good ruffians, thieves, and other unsavory sorts. And they all seemed to be named after relatively harmless things, and some were even downright cutesy sounding. Today's dealings had been chosen to go down in a place called 'The Autumn Rose,' though inside smelled anything but sweet.

Seated at a greasy table, situated along the far wall from the Rose's entrance, sat a partially cloaked woman with curled black hair about her face and colored in bright, cheap hues. She wore small, rounded glasses of dark tinted glass, even though the lighting in the place was terrible. The dirty candles in sconces and on tables barely held enough flame. But such a thing was not necessary for the unsavory men to drink, or fondle the many bits of the numerous whores that laughed and clucked while their partners roared and swore.

The black haired woman leaned against the wall and appeared to be waiting for something, or just watching. A time or two she got up after being beckoned over, and sat on a man's lap, chortling with the rest of them. But time and again she returned to her table, attention swirling about, to casually glance at the entry door.

Someone was close to being late.

"It's all piss here," the cockney woman informed, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Fresh or distilled, don't matter; saves money, makes money." She took a sip of her own drink, the small glass holding port, or something of the like. When it was placed back on the table, her shoulders went with it, and the woman rested both arms on the small table.

"Though is money somethin' you're really after? You were almost late." An eye looked up over the top of her tinted spectacles. "Your employer on this endevour won't like that none too much." It wasn't a threat, though even with the smiles and light tone, it maybe hinted at the possibility of one in the future.

"Wine 'nt only thing men use ta keep warm," she mused, swirling the contents of her glass. She watched him while he spoke, noting how his hands now sat on the table rather than under it. When the server came about, the woman watched her too, and didn't speak till she'd gone.

Or who. A hearty chuckle came forth from her mouth once they were alone again, and she raised up her glass. "Smart, cheeky boy. I guess you'll do after all." With that she downed the rest of whatever it was she had been drinking, and nearly slammed the small glass back down on the table. "Maybe. ...But not a matter, follow me if ya want to know the actual Who and What."

The brunette rose from her seat, and then waited for the other to follow suit, before heading towards the stairs of the establishment and its awaiting rooms.

Manners. Manners were overrated, though one could argue that there's a place and time for them at least on occasion. ....But this was not such an occasion, or at least not to the woman, though many would very strongly disagree. Practically ripping off one's skirt and accompanying crinolines to nothing but a corseted bodice and leggins wasn't exactly proper business conduct outside of whoring, but there it was. It happened.

"Should know that I hate skirts," Anya commented, annoyance at the dress still hanging on her voice, which was now devoid of its prior cockney accent. She moved more into the room, the fireplace and a few oil lamps the only sources of light. "Close the door," she grunted at the same time that she sent the wig from her head flying into a corner, along with the tinted glasses. Her hair was stark white, half of each arm was covered in solid tattoo work, and a there was almost a literal hole amidst massive scarring where her right eye should be. She grabbed something off a small desk and stuck it in the corner of her mouth, then moved towards a bottle of whiskey.

"Actual drink?" she asked through semi-clenched teeth, picking up the decanter and pouring the liquid into two cups. It ended up not being much of a question apparently, and soon she made her way back to him, sparring only inches between them. Personal space? Anya didn't know what that was. She held up his cup.

"Same height, same scars, same blue," she mused aloud, jerking her head a fraction to one side like a bird. She removed the unlit pipe from her mouth. "How interesting." And continuing on like a bird, she stared at him for an awkward second before heading towards the fireplace.

"How well do you like snow, Mister Delacroix?"

Anya took a seat by the fire and sipped her own drink. "Just making sure you're prepared for the North," she commented, words rolling. "Things are a bit farther than what that note may have initially intended."

She held up her glass and swished around the amber liquid, head tilted in a rather nonchalant way. "That buck of yours, how much weight can he handle?"