[color=00a651]As Dag’Tyr made his way up towards the Western Gate, he kept a steady pace and a steady gentle hum.
The day had been nothing but gloomy and grey since he left earlier that morning and the cold and unforgiving rain was bone chilling.
A child of warm barrow halls and burning forges this kind of wet cold seeped into the bones of the soul if one was not careful. 
Thus in order to keep up his spirits the young man had mumbled and hummed songs of old. 
Tales of days long past, of the glory days of Du’Eld and others like him.
Seeing the current destination within easy reach lightened his heart and hurried his step.
He readjusted his father’s shield upon its back, it depicted a large wolf biting down on a man’s arm. 
The image holding special significance as it depicted their ancestor and the sacrifice he suffered when he slew the dreaded beast Haralon a particular menace of a monster.
As he reached the first tents of the Noctem he glanced around curiously. He had not yet seen their folk often during his travels, so to be able to observe them in amongst one another was an unexpected pleasure, though Dag’Tyr inwardly sighed at the unfortunate weather.
From the look of the place it could very well hold work for him, as the rain often brought out illness in the weaker folk. Children and particularly the elderly fell prey to nasty infections of the respiratory variety, best to move on and find the nearest apothecary whose supplies would undoubtedly be depended upon. He moved on passing through the gate nodding kindly to the lady near it and entering Fenhall itself, making his way to the apothecary only stopping when he noticed the empty shelves through the window.[/color]