Occasionally, between the library and his constantly shifting schedule with Hellsing, Martel finds himself cutting it a bit finer than he'd like; now is one of those times.

His boots announce his stride - impatiently purposeful, there's a message waiting for him in his office and he should prep for a scheduled meeting this evening with several of the professors who're complaining about the frequency with which the new cohort makes use of a library they 'aren't entitled to as students or faculty', which he's inclined to make as much of a headache for them as he anticipates it being for himself and his colleagues - and he himself is not far behind that initial impression, turning sharply around a corner. His hair (white, prematurely) is wet and tied back at the base of his skull, but that had been all he'd had time to do before leaving the guild hall and he's shedding pieces of his Hellsing uniform as he moves, tugging his red tie loose from his shirt and folding his jacket over his arm, the badge disapearing into an inside pocket.

It would be a safe assumption that whatever he came from doing, it was intensely physical.