For the Hounds to so much as attempt to venture into the labyrinth of the tunnels might as well have been a death sentence, and it would have been if it wasn't for Emilie. The tunnels were a living, breathing thing, and they were always hungry. Always waiting. They swallowed people whole then spit them out as bones and rent flesh. Emilie knew that better than anyone, didn't she? She was a product of the tunnels, birthed from desperation and pain and sorrow, and she would never be the same.
None of them would.
She waited quietly, her long black robe helping her blend into the maw of the dark tunnels, and when she saw the familiar face of her enemy-turned-dealer-turned-ally, she practically began to tremble. She knew what he would have with him, what he was going to give her in exchange for safe (or as safe as possible) passage, and it was enough to make her itch with need. The waif of a girl had found another dealer, ones far less understanding and kind than Rodeo, and her tab was ever growing.
When Rodeo began to approach, Emilie stepped from the shadow, her face mostly hidden by her tangles of black hair and the hood she wore, but he'd likely be able to make out the gentle tilt of her plush mouth. It wasn't a smile exactly, but it was as close as she could manage. "Your Majesty," she purred quietly, playfully.