Noah prayed to the Maker, asking for more rain. For the first time in some of these people's lives it would shut them up for a minute. The wind was bone-numbing and the way it howled reminded him of nights at the Tower. He rubbed his hands and settled for believing it was the Maker's will to put a respectable amount of life in these many, many people, for there was no sadder thing than silence. It was good that they arrived soon - so that he could go and sit by the fire and drink, and then realise he had left his hair wet for an hour or two.
The weather was delightfully unpleasant, and at a state where nothing but the cold and wet prayed on the minds of the travelling party relentlessly. For Noah there was nothing better. It was like the times he enjoyed being at the back of the class [of all of three people] because he could let his eyes wander. His memories were of standing amongst others and having his gaze keeping watch over the ceiling, and it was because of that - and getting caught - that he could detect it in others. But a pervasive feeling of dread was making his heart beat faster. Everything he had learned about Cullen had given him enough to think the man didn't like Mages. Not that it hadn't been predictable, much. Everybody hated Mages. That was why they were locked up away from civilised people.
Noah spat on the ground, and walked foward to be closer to the Templars - in case anything happened swiftly and he was needed at the front. Plus talking to children? He liked maturity. Spitting hadn't been, but he'd figured there was nobody around to see it - they didn't expect much and so he was probably unnoticable. Something would have happened by now, if there were bandits as some of the apprentices were estimating. It would have been preferable. This was boring, though given the things he'd seen it was for the best.