Bixby Wizzlethorpe’s laboratory is a chaotic yet fascinating wonderland of alchemical curiosities. The air is thick with the scent of bubbling potions, burnt herbs, and the occasional hint of something suspiciously sweet. Vials, beakers, and flasks of every shape and size clutter the workbenches, many still fizzing with half-finished experiments. Stained parchment covered in frantic scribbles is scattered across the room, some pages pinned to the walls with alchemical equations circled in frantic excitement.
Shelves bow under the weight of arcane tomes, dusty ingredient jars, and bottles filled with mysterious glowing liquids. Every available surface is occupied by some form of alchemical detritus—whether it’s a precariously stacked pile of books, a cauldron still smoking from a previous mishap, or a glass dome containing an unidentifiable, gently pulsing substance. The floor is a battlefield of discarded notes, shattered glass, and the occasional scurrying homunculus that somehow escaped its containment.
At the back of the lab, a modest study stands in stark contrast to the rest of the room. Though still cluttered, it bears a sense of organization, with a sturdy wooden desk, a comfortable chair, and a single candle flickering beside a neatly kept journal. Shelves of well-worn books line the walls, and a small armchair sits nearby—perfect for those rare moments when Bixby allows himself to rest.
A door to the side leads to his personal quarters, perpetually ajar as if he’s too absentminded to close it fully. Within, his bed is buried under stacks of books and discarded robes, and a collection of potion-stained coats hang haphazardly from a rack. Though messy, the space carries the warmth of a man whose mind is constantly in motion—an alchemist consumed by the endless pursuit of knowledge, with little time to concern himself with trivial matters like tidiness.