Thankfully only a few seconds slipped by before the door was answered, allowing Ordhan only that short space of time to wish that he hadn't knocked quiet yet. Another minute or two to think about how Piers may react and what to say in response couldn't have hurt, right? But there was a young servant (elf, of course) at the door now, so more wavering and worrying was not an option.
The corners of his mouth lifted in a hint of a polite smile as he dipped his head. "I am Ser Ordhan Wyland," he answered solemnly. "I have a message for Lord Piers." The hand holding the letter moved as he spoke, though he did not make any motion to offer it to her. It seemed best to deliver it in-person. The scenario felt like he was delivering notification of a death to a soldier's family: a morbid thought, but one that could not be shaken, and it cast a pall over the morning beyond the dirty gray expanse of the overcast sky.
There was something about the young woman that struck him as strange. Deeply-ingrained manners prevented him from staring, but it nagged at the back of his mind until it came to him: she looked healthier than he was accustomed to seeing elves appear. Denerim was not kind to elves, and years of guarding the Alienage--not to mention the events of the previous day--had set the mental image of the average elf as a pale and pinched creature, too slight and thin to be truly healthy. Servants of noble houses may appear better, but not by much. Even Lalin, now well cared-for though provisions supplied by the Grey Wardens, had the wispy, wiry frame of an Alienage elf. The Dalish elf Faer was by no means unhealthy, but his face was hidden behind Dalish tattoos; foreign enough for Ordhan not to take not of slighter details.
It proved, if nothing else, that the family's reputation of calling for the better treatment of elves was not formed in hypocrisy.