Theron steps from the creaking doors of the watch tower and shields his eyes from the sun as he looks about the rod leading to New Haven. Light streams through the branches, catching the motes that float this way and that in the air with the wind still. The heat is just below stifling. He moves his hands down to examine them. They are caked with dark grey grime from a day of labor at the watch tower. As is a good smattering of his shirt and pants, though he doesn't wear the trademark red and black of the Order today.
Taking up his staff he walks along the road, glancing into his bag at a certain brown paper wrapped parcel, then up at the position of the sun.
"Might still be able to catch a red cap..." he mutters to himself.