[Dr. Chiba wouldn't be too far off the mark. The original resident moved out a little while ago, leaving half of their things behind, and the landlord's had to hire help to clean the whole damn mess out out of storage- or at least that's the story Warsman was immediately regaled with upon turning up at the building earlier that day. Some people, he's found during his tenure as a handyman, balk at the sight of a masked giant in a poncho turning up on their doorstep; others prefer to note that 'hired help' usually can't object to playing confessional barman for an hour or so.
It's alright, though. He's obviously not expected to engage in any real conversation, and Warsman doesn't particularly mind the wall of complaints that follow him around as he clears the storage area into the waiting van outside. By the time he's down to his last two boxes the landlord's already given up and wandered off to get things ready for his new tenant, leaving him to take them out of the front door and stack them onto a third box waiting outside before carrying the lot to the van.
Even if it's hardly back-breaking work it's still slippery enough out from the snow that Warsman has to concentrate. Between that and the stack of boxes in his arms it's not until he's loaded the van and slammed the doors shut that he even notices the woman standing at the curb- or, rather, before he notices the stack of luggage at her side and the soft clouds of warm air she breathes out, presumably from the effort of dragging it all along.
And there's no way that he can, in good conscience, let her carry on all by herself.]
Ma'am? [He approaches gingerly, head to one side.] Would you like some help?
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It's alright, though. He's obviously not expected to engage in any real conversation, and Warsman doesn't particularly mind the wall of complaints that follow him around as he clears the storage area into the waiting van outside. By the time he's down to his last two boxes the landlord's already given up and wandered off to get things ready for his new tenant, leaving him to take them out of the front door and stack them onto a third box waiting outside before carrying the lot to the van.
Even if it's hardly back-breaking work it's still slippery enough out from the snow that Warsman has to concentrate. Between that and the stack of boxes in his arms it's not until he's loaded the van and slammed the doors shut that he even notices the woman standing at the curb- or, rather, before he notices the stack of luggage at her side and the soft clouds of warm air she breathes out, presumably from the effort of dragging it all along.
And there's no way that he can, in good conscience, let her carry on all by herself.]
Ma'am? [He approaches gingerly, head to one side.] Would you like some help?