Oldeander took a step back to view his work. Boxes, trinkets, and psychonaut phamplets littered the floor of his treehouse. He liked to think of it more as a temporary training base for all recruited soldiors.
He sighed and continued working. If he wanted to be ready for the regular influx of campers tommorow, he would have to be finished packing tonight. And no matter how much Oleander liked to think he was a thinking sort of man, he always left important matters for the last minute and with little planning.
(Sorry I can't think of much else. Brain fart.)