[ That, and he would much rather handle the equipment he has coming in with his own hands; itemization and organization are better to do as things come in, than be faced with the task of cataloguing what he has available once it is all present. He is perfectly logical, like that. He truly has concluded that having Gen bring everything in, to the small office he inhabits at this time, will expedite the process; the thought of having the young man set everything down, only to have it picked up again and dragged piece-by-piece into the decrepit warehouse, is a thought accompanied by the idea of time wasted.
So, he holds his arm across the door — towering a few inches above the dog-eared courier, and gestures for him to enter. The warehouse is dark, save for the neon glow of the mushrooms that grow heavily from the floor, from the distant wall, from the ceiling itself - punching through in patches, through skylights and roofing. The ground below crunches with debris, save for a dutifully-cleaned path that must be the result of consistent, methodical travel. Amidst the pink glow, the lights of Bondrewd's heavy tail glow strongly, and it is by the hypnotic, easy sway of it that Gen will find his way. ]
In here, and on the desk. You needn't lean over. Poor thing, you look quite tired.
[ The office is not far, a former foreman's area located on the first floor — in the far, back corner of the dark, strange place. There is a lantern lit within, oil wicking strongly against the flame to cast flickering shadows and illumination upon the walls. A desk has been neatly cleaned off, a chair behind it. Bondrewd seems to be in the process of discarding broken file cabinets, judging by the heap of twisted scrap metal and drawers just beyond the door to the office.
There is! A little coffee pot and a pitcher of fresh water on the bare-bones shelves behind him, though. The scent of acrid, bitter beans fills the air — definitely burnt, it's been brewing all day in the pot. It is the pitcher of water that he moves to fetch, after heaving the sheer bulk of himself between the corner of his desk and some of the collapsed file cabinets. ]
I believe there is glassware in these packages. At least, I hope that it is my alembic system...
[ he cannot pout, but he is pouting eagerly............ ]
no subject
He badly wants to touch them. ]
Naturally. You are a courier, not a maid.
[ That, and he would much rather handle the equipment he has coming in with his own hands; itemization and organization are better to do as things come in, than be faced with the task of cataloguing what he has available once it is all present. He is perfectly logical, like that. He truly has concluded that having Gen bring everything in, to the small office he inhabits at this time, will expedite the process; the thought of having the young man set everything down, only to have it picked up again and dragged piece-by-piece into the decrepit warehouse, is a thought accompanied by the idea of time wasted.
So, he holds his arm across the door — towering a few inches above the dog-eared courier, and gestures for him to enter. The warehouse is dark, save for the neon glow of the mushrooms that grow heavily from the floor, from the distant wall, from the ceiling itself - punching through in patches, through skylights and roofing. The ground below crunches with debris, save for a dutifully-cleaned path that must be the result of consistent, methodical travel. Amidst the pink glow, the lights of Bondrewd's heavy tail glow strongly, and it is by the hypnotic, easy sway of it that Gen will find his way. ]
In here, and on the desk. You needn't lean over. Poor thing, you look quite tired.
[ The office is not far, a former foreman's area located on the first floor — in the far, back corner of the dark, strange place. There is a lantern lit within, oil wicking strongly against the flame to cast flickering shadows and illumination upon the walls. A desk has been neatly cleaned off, a chair behind it. Bondrewd seems to be in the process of discarding broken file cabinets, judging by the heap of twisted scrap metal and drawers just beyond the door to the office.
There is! A little coffee pot and a pitcher of fresh water on the bare-bones shelves behind him, though. The scent of acrid, bitter beans fills the air — definitely burnt, it's been brewing all day in the pot. It is the pitcher of water that he moves to fetch, after heaving the sheer bulk of himself between the corner of his desk and some of the collapsed file cabinets. ]
I believe there is glassware in these packages. At least, I hope that it is my alembic system...
[ he cannot pout, but he is pouting eagerly............ ]