"We do tend to be; I wouldn't deny it." He had thought the same for years--of people in general, perhaps: of the half-finished paintings each glimpse of a life was, the half-sung stories in a chance meeting. Even after a lifetime of trying to understand how the strands wove together, so much remained a mystery: why someone who never had to go hungry could be greedy for more, or why unsung heroes trudged to a lonely grave while charlatans lived in glory. Or why there were so many pictures of apples.
Ordhan waited until his head was clear of the door frame to respond. "I am glad you think so. I was young when I left," he said lightly. He often endured Conlan's good-natured ribbing over his age, and half-expected Falina to follow suit. Thirty-six was really not very old, but there were times when it felt it. As little as he minded the teasing (there was only one subject off-limits for mockery, to him), he hoped he never had the chance to truly grow old.
"Cormac and I only met once, a few years ago. There was a village that said it had been attacked by Darkspawn, but no one believed them. Cormac was the only other who took it seriously. He is a good man," he said, unpoetic words made strong with conviction. Mercenaries often had to take unsavory tasks, no doubt, but that Cormac had taken one with so much risk and so little gain proved a worth Ordhan rarely saw.
"I would like to hear how you met," he politely answered her offer. "I have wondered, but I did not want to pry." They were at the first destination of the tour, but Ordhan was far more interested in the stories held by the young dwarf than those entombed in paper.