Illy and Remy
That was quite an accent, wasn't it? Straight from the bayou and soaked in absinthe - accents were fascinating to Illyana in general, but the Cajun kinds, they seemed eclectic. Much of a hodgepodge, like the city of New Orleans itself - she hoped to be able to go one of these days. Perhaps when she got a better grasp on her portals and teleportation.
"I'm always dressed for no good because I am up to no good," she responded with a smirk, pushing off from where she'd been leaning against the wall. Her own accent was thick (thick as the borscht her mother used to make, yes?), but she could speak English fine. Most of the time (occasionally she did not know what words meant or got confused about how odd this language truly was). She sipped on her soda, the fifth one or so - and she was surprised she wasn't ready to float away, what with all the caffeine and the sugar. "Yes, Remy - side stepping the dog waste." She imagined he probably found worse on Bourbon Street. "I am Illyana. Do you know the ones who graduated?"