Methuselah
Methuselah advanced relentlessly, his destination being the terrible machine. With devotion and expertise born from years of repetition of this one task, the dark god would work the hellish machine in order to conjure the terrible brew. Like so many times, he would sacrifice precious metals and coal black liquid shall spew forth from the machine, carrying a smell of death as it would drip into the cups like boiling tar.
Darker and more bitter than hell itself... that is coffee.
Grinning like a fool in anticipation, the poor lad didn't even notice he smacked his face right into, well, nothing. Like a fly just slamming into a glass window. Nearly stumbling, he rubbed his forehead and groaned in annoyance.
"Ow.. huh?"
Curiously, he tapped at the empty space a few times. It felt like a barrier, probably magic or something. Even a champion of darkness like him couldn't help but sigh in disappointment and brood. Looks like no coffee for no one after all. He felt like knocking on the barrier a bit, just to test how tough it was, but in the end he judged touching it more might not be a good idea.
Well, there was no sense in being moody now. Even if he really felt like having some coffee, he wouldn't be trespassing over something like this. Besides, White said there had been some trouble in there. There was probably a reason for that barrier, no sense in breaking it.
It was with a face and look of utter defeat that he walked back to them.
"Hey, the grounds are locked by some sort of magic. Probably to keep people out, or in. Is that the work of whoever's in charge over there?" He asked the officer. He already had a pretty good guess, but it never hurt to make sure. Better safe than sorry.
