"Oh." With how often it happened, Ordhan ought to be quite used to learning that he had just taken something seriously that was meant as a joke. Or rather, he was quite used to it, but over the years had yet to think of an apt recovery. The only remedy he knew of was prevention--to say nothing when something seemed too ridiculous to be true. That did save him a time or two when he assumed something to be a joke that turned out to be said in earnest. That would have been even worse to recover from. "I am glad they do not," he concluded lamely. A foolishly over-obvious thing to say (and for Ordhan to realize this, it must have been very much so), but it seemed better than silence.
"People have been killed. It is not uncommon," Ordhan answered, as if explaining the sort of weather the city had during the summer. It was Denerim. Violence was as much a part of the city as the dust of the streets. "Many travelers pass through, it is true," he went on. "From throughout Ferelden, from other countries." Such a thing may sound exotic, perhaps, but he found it mundane; what did it matter if so many people came, if he would talk to none of them?
Such a fascinating race were dwarves! In Ferelden, those chosen to fight the Darkspawn gave their lives over to it, and before even then, the Grey Wardens had to lift them up from whatever lowly beginning they had. Yet a dwarvish barmaiden's mother was a fighter of Darkspawn. From what Ordhan had read, the entire race was as hardy as the stone itself. It seemed that any one of them could be placed on the battlefield against the Darkspawn and prevail. Yet they had been made that way by hardship and endless years of conflict; Ordhan hoped that it never came to that in Ferelden. Let the land have its gentler sorts.
Not that the dwarf did not seem gentle, but Ordhan had no doubt that if hard pressed, she had the mettle to hold her own. All dwarves did.
Ordhan bowed his head respectfully. "You must be proud," he answered. It was as likely as not that a bit of familial bias colored her words, but Ordhan had no doubt that her mother was quite formidable regardless.
Oh, Ordhan had no fear of her warnings. For all of his social shortcomings, being talked to was nothing to be afraid of. "I do not mind," he said warmly, with a hint of a smile. Why would someone not want someone so friendly speaking to them? Perhaps if they came to the bar to be angry and sullen. But even then, wouldn't it cheer them up?
Her enthusiasm stirred up misgiving, however. She was a storyteller, eager to hear stories. No matter what he spoke of, the manner would be stilted and bland, not worthy to be told to the average listener, let alone a minstrel. "I do travel," Ordhan said. "I go where there is fighting to be done, when those I serve allow." He did not realize that this may betray his presence in Gwaren as more than simply political.
His expression did not falter when she asked where he grew up, though discomfort lurked beneath the surface. Luckily, the question was buried in a bushel of others; certainly just one of them ignored would not seem suspicious.
The mention of the Frostback Mountains brought a distant look to his eyes that lasted only a thoughtful moment. How grand the sight of those mountains had been, yet how much they defied words. Nothing he could say could do them justice. For that matter, Ordhan doubted even a minstrel's words could describe them. "I have seen the Frostbacks, but only from a distance. They were very beautiful, and the tallest I have ever seen. Perhaps my duties will take me there, one day." His words were the simplest of simple, but there was an undeniable note of awe that underran them.