On hot days, when the stench of Denerim ripened and the heat waves rose in the streets, even the most proper knight might wish to be without his armor. Ordhan never imagined how uncomfortable and vulnerable it would feel to not even have the choice to wear it. He had a few pieces left, to inconvenient for the thief (curse him) to steal, but in the end decided to make his trip to the armory in commoner's clothes. An odd half-armored array would only invite questions Ordhan would rather not answer. It was bad enough that he had to explain to those at Fort Drakon why he showed up on their doorstep half-dead in the first place.
So it was that when Ordhan found himself in front of the armory in the Market Square, there was the odd sensation that he was hiding, somehow. It would have been a poor disguise. Little could hide the way he bore himself, used to standing straight and rigid beneath the burden of full plate, and the bruising and knife-scars on his face were even more obvious. The need for armor would not wait for the angry red lines to fade, however. He self-consciously brushed a wrinkle from one sleeve and turned the handle of the door.
Started to turn it, that was. About halfway through, a loud click came from the handle; it wouldn't have given him pause a week before, but now it made his blood turn cold. He chided himself even as he stood, wide-eyed, handle half-turned. Some skittishness was excusable after his ordeal, but he knew that if he coddled the fear he would be jumping at shadows for years to come. Besides, this was an armory. Merchants wanted people to come into their stores. Ordhan took a quick breath to calm his nerves, then opened the door and stepped inside in one moment.
It was all he could do not to shout when a series of clicks and whirrs rang out as he stepped inside, twice as loud in his ears as they really were, and then a bell rang overhead. His pulse pounded in his head as the tinny echoes of the chime faded. Ordhan's eyes drifted upwards as the rest of him remained motionless. A bell. He, veteran of the Blight and knight of Denerim, panicked by a bell on a door. A greeting in dwarvish reminded him that the owner was be nearby. In a moment Ordhan had composed himself, looking now at the dwarf behind the counter instead of staring towards the upper doorframe. Hopefully the other had not noticed his odd behavior.
"Greetings," answered Ordhan solemnly, inclining his head in a respectful nod. He managed not to react when he saw a trap in the dwarf's hands. Maker, what sort of jest of fate was this? As soon as a fear of snares roots itself in his mind, they suddenly appear everywhere?