The figure behind the counter grew taller for a moment, having levered himself up by the counter, and studied Ordhan. The dwarf only grunted in disapproval at first. Ordhan's brows drew together, though his face remained stoic. This would be the sort of first impression he would make to a dwarf. Both dwarves and elves came to save Denerim long ago, and though the knight held utmost gratitude for both, only dwarves remained distant, mysterious, idolized. Certainly, Denerim had its own share of the people from Orzammar, though none that Ordhan had made the acquaintance of. The knight was anything but social, so this was no surprise.
But now Ordhan was composed, shoulders back and manner unruffled. "A friend told me you make the best armor in the city," he answered. Though it sounded like flattery, it was an honest repetition; when not being sarcastic, Conlan never described anything half-heartedly. His recommendation of the smith was glowing. Still, Ordhan hoped that the dwarf and mercenary's connection wasn't too close; if they knew each other well enough to chat, Conlan might learn of his embarrassing entrance, and he already found enough things to poke fun at him over.
Now that the shop's owner had been addressed, Ordhan took the moment to quickly take in his surroundings. It needed little more than a glance; a footman who couldn't notice many things in the space of a second was one who wouldn't survive long on the battlefield. Besides the traps and traps and more traps, which Ordhan did his best to ignore, examples of Cyril's work stood a short distance away by the forge. A greatsword and a dwarf-sized suit of armor prominently displayed behind the counter especially caught his attention. It was strange to see armor so scarred in a smith's shop. It was obviously from no mere spar--the suit was beaten and battered, wounds in the aged metal rent by heavy weapons borne by strong arms. Though his curiosity had been stirred up, Ordhan had not come to badger the man with questions and idle talk.