Even under the multiple layers of clothing warding of the cold, the figure shivered. One might have thought at first he was somehow deformer or had a horribly hunched back, as the thick cloak draped over his body seemed to stick much further out from his body than it should. But if one were to pay a little more attention, they could see the black tips of a pair of feathered wings hanging out from below the edge of the cloak. His arms hugged tightly against his torso, fists clenched tight.

He just had to come so late, and now he cursed himself for his slothfulness. Ithil had hoped that a quick step outside was all it would take, that he could get back in front of his forge soon. But no, now he would have to wait, miserable and cold, and just hope that he could afford some food and charcoal when he finally got his turn. Under his cloak his wings would wave about a little, helping drop off snow that had built up atop his cloak.