Heading towards the lake Noah shoved one hand in his pocket (stick tucked under his arm in a rather awkward way) whilst the other cradled the cigarette against the wind. He almost wished he had thought to bring his cape, however it was entirely too late now, and instead Noah made for the relative shelter of the forest, a stream of smoke blowing back in his face as he exhaled.
Ignoring the sporadically changing shadows, groans and creeks from beneath the trees Noah leant back against a sturdy looking oak, removing the bowler hat from his head to scratch at where the band had been digging in ever so slightly. Having let his hair grow in the run up to the masque he knew it was more than long enough to be suffering from major hat hair, and, even though no one was around, he found himself replacing the dusty black hat as soon as possible, just in case.




