[The man that enters is honestly sort of on the nondescript side; he seems a bit tired, perhaps, the sort of person that seems to be more than a bit overworked, but he also doesn't seem the be the sort that would smell delicious to you - he hasn't lost his vigor for life or work or anything else, he doesn't seem upbeat but his spirits are still plainly up enough, the guy could just, like, seriously use a fucking vacation.
Seeing as he's here, he's also probably insane. But that goes without saying. As it stands, though, he's just kind of your average dirty-blond guy that probably lives in the burbs with his wife and his dog and his 2.5 kids and probably plays fucking badminton or something.
He's got a clipboard with him that seems to be containing notes; he'll sort of give Elda a look, and the look is kind of a hard to read one, but he'll settle back easily enough with his back against the wall, crossing his legs idly at the ankle and paging through what he's got on that clipboard, because you are Officially Less Interesting than his notes. Which may or may not be a good thing.]
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Seeing as he's here, he's also probably insane. But that goes without saying. As it stands, though, he's just kind of your average dirty-blond guy that probably lives in the burbs with his wife and his dog and his 2.5 kids and probably plays fucking badminton or something.
He's got a clipboard with him that seems to be containing notes; he'll sort of give Elda a look, and the look is kind of a hard to read one, but he'll settle back easily enough with his back against the wall, crossing his legs idly at the ankle and paging through what he's got on that clipboard, because you are Officially Less Interesting than his notes. Which may or may not be a good thing.]
Good to see you're awake. Making much headway?
[...On the. Restraints. Probably.]