Random and Vialle have just moved from the dungeon into Random's old rooms.

There are probably prized mementos and even genuine valuables buried somewhere in this mess, but toss-and-grab living amidst the fads of the eternal city and myriad ventures into the shadows has wed tourist junk to an exotic collection of weaponry and an even more exotic collection of discarded women's undergarments thrown into odd corners and then accidentally paved over with political pamphlets and scraps of scribbled music on manuscript paper.

Vialle has just pointed out that she and the staff have packed quite a bit of his junk. She pours him coffee.

Random watches the progress of coffee like it's a lifeline. "There's plenty of room!" he protests. He gives the room a suspicious once-over look, trying to figure out what's missing, but it's been a long time since he's really paid attention to the accumulated clutter of a few centuries of indifferent bachelorhood.

Vialle sits beside him on the bed, careful not to spill the coffee before handing it over. "It will be better once it is cleared. We can walk around. Have guests." Teasing, brows softly arched, "The table won't be sticky."

Random clutches his coffee, and fortifies himself with a sip of the bracingly bitter brew before he musters up an answer. "We have an entire salon outside my suite for visitors. Besides," and he has to pause to think up a proper protest, filling the temporary silence with coffee, "the table has always been sticky. It came sticky. It was..." He closes his eyes and makes something up quickly. "The table of Fats Baloney, the drummer! Out in this shadow I once visited. He spilled his beer on it one night and everyone who's sat in his place ever since has gone on to be a legend. It shouldn't ever be cleaned." He opens one eye cautiously to see how well that's been received.

Vialle says, neatly, "I'm sorry. I had the maid clean it this morning. It took two different kinds of soap and four sponges. But the good news is there will be room for your drums once we put the boxes in storage."

Random looks crestfallen. "You're..." He searches for a word, doesn't come up with one, and dives into a drink of his coffee. Armed with caffeine, his vocabulary-spelunking manages to toss up the completely inadequate, "_organizing_. I'm being organized!" Laced with horror.