Phileas's workshop was, as always, in a state of considerable disarray. The copper tubes that ran along the walls, connecting to various beakers, vials, jars and alembics of every shape, size, and content dripped with condensation from their cooling cargo, and everywhere was the hiss and grind of machinery; some pieces sitting with their guts exposed to the air, others too delicate for the wind and the sand and sealed tight within cases of wood, of clay, of glass, of steel. Phileas's workbench was scattered with small hand tools and magnifiers, and the inner workings of a new and interesting piece of equipment sat carefully organized on a white sheet.
Phileas himself was not at the work bench. In the small nook of a kitchen set off aside from the main work area, the inventor busied himself with a tea ball and a pot of boiling water, feeling the autopilot of his house carve its way carefully across the desert sands. He didn't know where, exactly, he was in the formation, but he knew he was somewhere towards the middle as always, and he didn't really bother with worrying about it except for when they hit a town--which, as of late, was unlikely. They'd been in the desert for several weeks now, charting this great hostile sea of sand. He was repulsed by this place. Why didn't the wanderers just settle in the mountains? Life would be just as difficult, but it wouldn't be so blisteringly hot and... Sandy. The heat Phileas had expected. But the sand was an unexpected nuisance. Not the fact that there was sand in the desert, but just how adept it was at infiltrating everything. It snuck through cracks in the houses, it blew in through windows, it seemed even to slip up through the floor. Every open slot was a way for sand to get into the houses. Which led Phileas to wonder: If the SPH's frames were so poorly suited to traveling through sand, then why in the hell were they out there?!
Holding his piping hot tea in one hand, Phileas made his way back out to the workbench and carefully started to reassemble the gun-like object on his desk, bit by tiny bit. One miscalculation (or errant grain of sand) could make the thing a time bomb when it was operational; Phileas was prided in the caravan for that kind of thing generally not happening to his weapons, so he didn't want to break a good streak. Nevertheless, he was nearly done, slotting the final cogwheel into place within the frame, when his whole house shook and rattled to a halt. Phileas felt himself thrown to the floor from the force of the house's brake mechanisms, and despite not being injured (or more importantly, losing the gun) he felt a new hole in the sleeve of his shirt.
"Agh, God still me bones..." Phileas shook his head from side to side slowly, looking at the tear right along the seam of the shirt. "Well, I 'ad tae visit the tailor this week anyhow... May's well get tha' done now." The inventor walked to his sleeping room and picked up a few similarly damaged shirts, then booted his door open into the baking heat of the desert sun, one hand still gripping his new toy. It must have been an odd sight, seeing the weaponsmith emerge from the womb of his low-slung house with one arm swathed in various linen shirts, pants and waistcoats, the other hand clutched tight to a large and matte-black instrument of death. If Phileas knew this, he didn't care. He was down to his last shirt.
~~~
Some time passed as Phileas wandered up the stalled convoy, eventually coming to Mabel's dress shop. He didn't bother with knocking, merely stepped inside, holding the gun in one hand and his shirts in the other as he had been for the last few minutes. He noted the chaos in the interior and immediately stooped to place his gun in the umbrella holder, picking up some of the various and sundry bolts of cloth, spools of yarn, and other textiles and materials and returning them to their places on the shelves. He eventually looked up and noticed Mabel somewhere in the vicinity.
"Mabel!" He said courteously, giving a wave and a small half-bow. "Can I ask a favor of yeh? Got some shirts what need a rush repair 'ere, if you could be sweet an' get those done fair me. I'd be happy t' pay ye back with any favors ye may've had in mind. If'n ye're still havin' that rodent problem, for example?" He quirked his brow upward over his brown eyes, smiling slightly.
