[Oh— his dashing savior is, mm, enjoying a bare midriff. That's hardly anything shocking after how many people in this place wander around in the nude, but for Lorenz - who even on Laundry Day is still buttoned all the way up to the throat (it's casual because he's not wearing a full jacket, obviously, only the waistcoat) - well, he takes a beat to blink. Just to blink. Respectfully, above the neck. Ahem.

Perhaps this man has also been to war with these infernal machines... No, surely not, he doesn't look nearly upset enough to be close to the Room of Laundering. Lorenz shakes his head and waves a hand, both dismissing the suggestion that he needn't promise anything.]

Ahaha, did you not hear the part about it being wrought in iron? There is no need to refuse— no man works for free, after all. It would tarnish my reputation to demand services of those not hired and salaried, ergo: you must accept.

[It's laundry. He's still serious, although his tone is much lighter, pleasant.]

Now, come and see. It is the ruin of my wardrobe, here in this contraption...

[He gestures, then makes for one of the washing machines and nods to look inside it: lo, the laundry, a sodden, sopping mound of mostly purple. Lorenz gingerly tugs a wet shirt out of the lot, grimacing at how it's still dripping.]

I may have misused the device... Clothes this wet would collapse any drying line.