Ordhan knew it would be a bad day the moment he heard drunken voices.
Any drunk was difficult enough to deal with. They were loud, violent, difficult to ignore, and usually ended up vomiting on him. The sight of these particular drunks made his heart sink when they wandered into view. Beneath the telltale splashes of ale shone fine silk and expensive needlework, and gold piping on their cuffs and collars flashed in the sunlight.
Ordhan swore under his breath. Noble drunks were the worst. They managed to leave all inhibition behind, forgetting whatever sense of propriety or manners they ever pretended to hold to, but one thing they would somehow manage to remember was anyone who dared get in their way in the meantime. He shuddered. Despite his efforts to stay out of everyone's way in every situation, he had the misfortune of angering a group very similar to this; he was positive the whip-scars would never go away. He hunched his shoulders in a subconscious effort to appear smaller.
The men wobbled as they walked, but their direction seemed clear enough. ...The Alienage? It was hardly a sightseeing location. He couldn't imagine what would bring even drunk nobles there. It didn't matter. It was none of his concern. Andraste's blood, it was lucky he hadn't been doomed to that assignment today; this post was close, but not quite within, and it would be easy enough to shift blame should it come his way.
The group was tottering closer. He hunched further, then for added affect let his head loll to one side and let his eyes drift half-closed. With any luck, they would give him no heed: a part of the scenery as much as the pile of termite-ridden crates against the wall opposite him. All commoners were just a part of the scenery to nobles, right? He kept his eyes open a slit; if they decided on a spontaneous round of guard-baiting, he would be able to see them coming. It afforded him a glimpse of the group as they drew near; though it was poor, there was one face among them every guard would recognize: the Bann Vaughn.
Ordhan didn't move when they passed by, or for the minutes that followed. Shouting, no, screaming could now be heard in the distance, but he only let his head droop lower and shut his eyes completely. Something horrible was happening. An especially shrill scream--a woman's--turned his stomach. Impotent anger made adrenaline pour through his veins, but he knew better than to move. By the time the group passed by again, much louder than before, his temple was throbbing from the helm pressing against it, and the side of his neck ached.
He only moved when he heard his name shouted by a familiar young voice. It was breathless, but there was no mistaking the panic in Davin's calls. At first he didn't answer, but after the third time the boy called his name he realized he couldn't get away with pretending to sleep this time--most likely because Davin had seen him do the very same countless times, already. The guard straightened, casting nervous eyes about him before looking down at the young elf. "Davin, stop yelling," he urged, voice low.