The thundering of hooves was an uncommon sound this far up in the mountains and this close to the looming gates that allowed passage into dwarven lands. The people of the Stone were not known for being riders, and even one horse in that frosty territory should have been quite a sight for any surfacer merchant. But this was not just a single man on horseback -- no, this was nearly a dozen, mostly men clad in metal with dark cloaks whipping behind them, but at least a few women and one elf, distinguishable only in that their kind were typically slighter than humans. One rode ahead of the rest, his dappled steed galloping at a steady pace. The hour of their arrival was later than he had anticipated, but then again, several events had taken place on the road that he had not anticipated. Of course, maybe he should have -- death and darkspawn were a basic part of his lifestyle choice, so it shouldn't have surprised him nearly as much when he and his party had encountered both on the way and the situation ended poorly.
Nevertheless, this was the third time he had been delayed in reaching his destination, and even if he didn't have a shining reputation for punctuality, the man would have preferred to achieve at least one thing, on his very long list of tasks, sooner rather than later. The sun was just barely grasping at the peaks with its light now, and though its position would mean nothing once he went inside and underground, it certainly had meaning to the rest of the group that was following his lead. They would need the rest, and given how great there numbers were (and how armed, as well), he wasn't certain they would all be allowed beyond the gates, especially given the last reports he'd heard of the kingdom's political status. But even he was starting to get sore from all this riding, and he'd been at it for months now -- a brief stop would be more than welcome, but much better if they could reach the safety of the encampment at the steps first.
Finally, he slowed the horse down to a canter as they reached the bridge, careful of the potential for ice and so as not to arouse too much excitement, or concern, from the merchants at the stalls and the guards by the entrance to Orzammar. At least half of the other riders had caught up with him at this point, the others remaining in the back to flank the supply wagons, and matched his speed. Their presence immediately drew attention, but not quite alarm; activity quieted in the small valley, but did not come to an immediate halt. The leader of these lanky topsiders stood out from the rest primarily because he was the first to dismount. His armor was different, as well, darker and emblazoned with two golden gryphons, back to back, on the breastplate. Though its wearer wasn't attempting to bring that much attention to himself, the hood of his grey cloak intentionally drawn low over his head, he apparently hadn't done a very good job at it, as he could feel everyone's eyes fixated on him, pressing down like a heavy weight.
Alistair should have been used to having an audience at this age. He was nearing his forties, was the Grey Warden Commander of Ferelden, and he had almost even been the King (although that option felt like another lifetime ago) -- and yet he still felt uneasy with so many people just standing there, practically gawking at him, like he had sprouted three heads and were afraid to tell him about it. It certainly wasn't the first time he had come to Orzammar, but every time he did, silence still took hold over the locals and he was left feeling like the Most Awkward Man in Thedas. He coughed nervously into his chilled gauntlet, breath coming out in a visible puff, and that seemed to send those prying eyes back to their usual business. Behind him, he heard the shifting of plates as some of the others planted their feet on the ground, snow crunching beneath their heels.