Alright, cryptic teacher. Cadeyrn's movement is so slight it might be missed, as he raises a single brow by just a fraction, and the very corners of his mouth grow a little crooked.

"And when was this school founded?" he questions easily, like catching threads from this silken weave. He wonders briefly which insect he'll find at the end of the thread, but doesn't prod too deeply yet. A school. A teacher. His presence here-- and he's seen a few others lingering nearby. Just as lost, just as confused as he is.

"Do you often get students without a warning?" He's not sure what's going on. Something that escapes his notice, something just underneath his fingertips. Something important, he'd bet. "And for that matter-- where are the rest of them? Why is this a school as well as a waste disposal? Is there nothing here that has not been soiled or half-rotten, or picked apart? Why so?"

And that is just the bottom of the mountain. Cadeyrn has too many questions, and, alright, cleaning helps, but he wants to make sure he's not missing a gesture, an expression that might reveal more than the older man is truly willing to say. So he turns back to him, watches carefully with thundercloud eyes as he crosses his arms, leans against the (freshly cleaned, thank you) counter. He has all the time in the world after all-- and knowledge is power.