It is with absolute patience that Rowena meets him, having groomed this particular skill with some grand measure of practice over the years. He was tired, drawn, a fact reflected in startling clarity with every slouching moment or flicking of his gaze; but this would earn him no modicum of pity, she would pursue even this smallest victory as tirelessly as she pursued everything else. A single perfectly-manicured eye brow rises to meet the hardly rhetorical inquiry he spits across the marble counter. "Your privacy will be given every measure of protection," she offers curtly, her English accent curling pleasantly around every sharp syllable, though she does not bristle even with the shrouded assumption. "But if you wish to live in your own filth I suggest you take yourself to the Motel 8 on the west side of town." Rowena simply nods to him then, signaling the end of the argument and wordlessly stating that to remain as a guest in her establishment would be offering his compliance on the matter.

She seeks to leave him then, content to have her staff meddle with whatever additional ridiculous remarks and verbal pollution he might wish to dispense, taking herself instead to observe the other faultlessly-maneuvering departments of her business. Until, that is, she is halted once more by the same eclectic gentleman, the slender blonde pivoting to face him once more. The sage of her gaze shifts momentarily from him, to the couple now tittering excitedly at the concierge desk, before falling heavily upon the feline as it meanders towards her, the animal and its master clearly far too certain that she might be accepting of such things. A warlock with a cat, how very quaint, she muses inwardly before diverting her gaze back to the gentleman would seek to monopolize a bit of her time.

"We extend courtesy to Hunters on a quite regular basis," she lilts, a cool smile creasing her features. "In fact, the Chancellor of that adorable little campfire group they call a council provides his patronage quite frequently." Ruby lips curl at the thought, the domineering blonde gleaning a small trace of satisfaction from the patronage of that particular individual simply for the manner in which it defied everything he sought to personify. He was a traitor to the creed of his species, as they all eventually proved themselves to be, and she found herself willing to simply step back and reap the benefits of his vice.

Wordlessly Rowena gathers the key from his hands, traipsing pointedly across the corridor and up a winding and rather antique stone staircase. Impeccably restored and preserved as everything else contained within The Witchery certainly was. "If you're troubled by that, let me assure you that a number of very complex and quite... unique security measures are in place to prevent these suites from being infiltrated." With that, she merely walks in silence for a time, nothing but the subtle clicking of her heels accenting the permeating still. She gives pause at a rather ornate oak door, the golden placard on the front denoting that they have, indeed, arrived at The Turret. "There you are," she muses, holding open the heavy wooden slab so that he might have a look at what she and The Witchery had to offer.