[ There's a point, when nearly everything is loaded up, when nearly everyone is loaded up, but not quite yet — that someone else from the house is waiting for Ortus.
Augustine has made no attempts to keep anyone from moving out of the house. (Well, one — but he hasn't actually tried, after all.) Augustine himself has only been gone from the house very briefly, once, to the Archives, to recover a single specific book — and no matter that he looks like absolute shit, the longer he spends in the house, in close proximity to him. Lyctors — necromancers, but given that Palamedes Sextus has long made his opinion of this house and its master plain — aren't meant to spend time in close proximity to Heralds. ]
It's good that you're getting them out.
[ He gives Ortus a nod, respectful — with a touch of a wry smile at one corner of his mouth. There's nothing mocking here, no matter who might be looking: just someone who's spent most of the last twenty-four hours constantly on the edge of flinching at every buzzing, rattling, clicking noise in the house.
There's a crate in his arms; it is, predictably enough, made of thin-lacquer bone, given that Ortus has already calmly repurposed every box that was already extant throughout the house, to move everyone's things out. There's not all that much in it. The bottom layer is carefully-nestled jams, made by Paul and whoever else was willing to help him, last month. There are a few notebooks — simple things, unwarded; chapbooks, hymnals, anatomical atlases, from throughout the Age of Man. And there's a small box under them, too, still sealed up with tape, covered in dust, the word ORRERY just barely visible through the grime — a sticky note attached to it has Augustine's handwriting questioning birthday? without specifying whose. He isn't even aware this is in here; Alfred added it when he was still sorting through the prayer books. The orrery inside isn't assembled, of course, but the neatly-labeled instructional book ought to make it very easy to get things in working order. ]
Good you're getting out, too, I imagine.
[ He's not used to this. (He's not used to any of this.) ]
Thanks, I suppose.
[ He shoves the crate at Ortus. Look, just take it. Make good use of what's inside. Everything is so very well labeled as to its purpose. ]
you! yes, you, behind the bikesheds! stand still, laddy!
Augustine has made no attempts to keep anyone from moving out of the house. (Well, one — but he hasn't actually tried, after all.) Augustine himself has only been gone from the house very briefly, once, to the Archives, to recover a single specific book — and no matter that he looks like absolute shit, the longer he spends in the house, in close proximity to him. Lyctors — necromancers, but given that Palamedes Sextus has long made his opinion of this house and its master plain — aren't meant to spend time in close proximity to Heralds. ]
It's good that you're getting them out.
[ He gives Ortus a nod, respectful — with a touch of a wry smile at one corner of his mouth. There's nothing mocking here, no matter who might be looking: just someone who's spent most of the last twenty-four hours constantly on the edge of flinching at every buzzing, rattling, clicking noise in the house.
There's a crate in his arms; it is, predictably enough, made of thin-lacquer bone, given that Ortus has already calmly repurposed every box that was already extant throughout the house, to move everyone's things out. There's not all that much in it. The bottom layer is carefully-nestled jams, made by Paul and whoever else was willing to help him, last month. There are a few notebooks — simple things, unwarded; chapbooks, hymnals, anatomical atlases, from throughout the Age of Man. And there's a small box under them, too, still sealed up with tape, covered in dust, the word ORRERY just barely visible through the grime — a sticky note attached to it has Augustine's handwriting questioning birthday? without specifying whose. He isn't even aware this is in here; Alfred added it when he was still sorting through the prayer books. The orrery inside isn't assembled, of course, but the neatly-labeled instructional book ought to make it very easy to get things in working order. ]
Good you're getting out, too, I imagine.
[ He's not used to this. (He's not used to any of this.) ]
Thanks, I suppose.
[ He shoves the crate at Ortus. Look, just take it. Make good use of what's inside. Everything is so very well labeled as to its purpose. ]