He raced past them, his long coat fluttering up behind them as he ran. He dashed in and out of the crowd of students, evoking more than a few yelps, but none who dared to shout abuse his way – not when they saw the sword clattering on his hip.
By all accounts, Oliver Patrick looked as though he was dressed to go on campaign, with those riding boots that he was wearing, and that thick cloak, those gloves, and that sword. He was the picture of a man standing in a state of urgency. Most that looked at him, despite themselves, could only assume that something significant had happened, and a nervousness began to build because of it.
