Well, at least a Warden. Some distance off in the crowded, haphazard space that served as a town square for Redcliffe, Signy stepped out of the forge. She had been working there again this morning, and this time the master smith had let her do something slightly more complicated than sharpening. Apparently she had proven herself, although Signy was still galled, deep down, that someone would ever question her capacity to put hammer to steel. She might not be of the Smith Caste anymore—and humans might have no idea what the significance of it even was—but her blood and bones were the blood and bones of a hundred generations of smiths; neither being a mage or a surfacer nor a Warden could change what her ancestors had been. And she had watched her mother for as long as she could remember. But the heat in the forge had begun to get to her; exhaustion was mounting, after several days of poor or no sleep, and Signy had slipped out the door to find a breeze and perhaps a drink. Maybe there was a hot meal at the inn where most of the group was staying, or some other, temporary distraction.
Standing in front of the burning furnace, holding tongs, watching the metal melt and cool, and feeling the strike of the hammer against the anvil resounding in her bones, all of it had begun to call up memories of home; she could see her mother in the forge in the back of their old shop, swinging her hammer with stunning, powerful thuds. She always wore her long, blond hair in a heavy, tight plait when she worked; Signy had tried to replicate the style today, but already wisps of hair were escaping, clustering around her sooty, red face. What was Signovar doing now? What time was it in Orzammar, even? They did not keep to the hours the sun dictated; was it morning or evening in the unceasing red glow of the lava? She squinted, not looking directly up at the sun (it blinded, she had learned, almost too late) but gazing around the town. It was active, it almost looked normal, but Signy could not help seeing anxiety around her; perhaps it was there, perhaps it was merely her own. The tall crowds moved hastily, jerkily almost; as her eyes adjusted to the sunlight, she skimmed the crowd.
It was not Lee she saw first, though the Enchanter towered over her companion, and would have been the one most tall folk saw first; Signy looked at her own height level, instead, and… The dwarf walking through the town, with long blond hair and hand shading her face for a moment against the sun, was the spitting image of Signy's mother. The young dwarf's eyes widened, her mouth, perhaps, even dropped open a bit; when the older dwarf brought her hand down the moment passed, and Signy's heart sank back from the spot in her throat it had jumped to. It wasn't Signovar. Too tall, too tan, facial features different, and the fact that her mother's presence here would have been astronomically inexplicable; still, for another moment or two, she stared.
Then she started across the square in a hustle, skirts gripped in either hand to keep them out of her way; this was still another dwarf and Signy had not spoken to one of her people in what felt like ages too long; and now her curiosity was thoroughly piqued. "Lee, Enchanter Lee," she hailed, as she approached.