Some men came to taverns to drink so that they could leave their worries behind, if only for an hour or two. Ser Ordhan Wyland brought his with him.
There were not the worst of worries; he had known far worse in life and was certain many more lay ahead of him, but if anything it seemed undutiful to let himself forget the reasons he was in Gwaren, even just to relax with a mug of ale. Ordhan did not relax. He waited. Peace was but a lull between battles, wasted time added to the wasted years already held against him. Perhaps the only thing he had retained from his time in the guard--and the only guardlike thing about him, even then--was the feeling that he ought to be watching and waiting for something to happen, no matter where he was.
At the moment he was waiting for the most burdensome thing of all: politics. One would think that a venture to confront Darkspawn would be straightforward. What was there to know? The creatures needed to be killed. But the leader of the contingent of knights from Denerim (not Ordhan, whom despite his experience held a low place among his fellows, given his bloodline) was speaking to one of the commanders in Gwaren, apparently about the complexities of venturing near the forest without rousing elvish ire. The entire matter made him anxious. He came here to fight Darkspawn, not elves, and it would be a pity to find himself in battle against those his efforts would protect. Even more so for the fact that he would be long dead, ash on the wind, were it not for the Dalish elves who saved his life.
It was all very troubling. As if the rumors of Darkspawn lurking in the forest weren't troubling enough.
With the knight wrapped in his own thoughts, the liveliness of the tavern went mostly unnoticed. He nursed a mug of ale at a slow pace. The Bronze Butterfly (such a strange name, and one that made no sense) was uncrowded for the moment, making each small sound stand out all the more. None made him look up until a more melodic sound joined them: the sound of a lute playing, held by the young dwarf woman behind the bar, soon joined by her singing.
It was beautiful. He did not recognize the wordless song, but found himself drawn in by it, ale forgotten as his worries went dormant. There was nothing in the world quite like a song. They were not bound up in physical things that could be lost in war or theft or forgetfulness, nor could circumstance mar their beauty. A song was no less lovely amid desolation than it would be in peace--perhaps even more so.
Though he had not said a word beyond the quiet request for ale he'd made some time before, he could not let something so pleasant go unpraised. The knight dipped his head in a polite nod towards the young dwarf. "That was lovely, miss," he said solemnly.