Signy nodded, keeping pace along the wet, uneven road; her boots squelched unpleasantly in the mud but by now, after days of traveling in a partly-flooded countryside, she'd begun to get used to the sound and the difficulty of walking in deeper mud. That, and the expectation of dropping into it any time that she left the wagon. "Ah. I could see how that would make sense, wanting to avoid humans," she mused, half to herself, half for Imenry's benefit. "Are there many forests in Ferelden—or in Thedas?"
Her eyes were drifting upwards to the horizon again, crossing the distant expanse of what she knew now to be leaves and green foliage; after a moment, she continued, "Well, if their stories aren't nonsense, maybe some elf has made something, I don't know, akin to a wooden golem? Not as advanced, of course," she added, still thoughtful, convinced anything made by nondwarves would be less advanced simply because of its source. "Or it could be a silly story, like Frisyth's Hundred Boulders. But I don't suppose they tell that to children on the surface—do they? What sorts of stories do you tell to your children? I mean, not the true stories like from the Shaperate but silly ones about girls who convince all the rocks in the thaig to do their chores for them."
She furrowed her brow again, as a thought occurred to her; maybe Rhocanth, so interested in the Shaperate and in what he could learn of the surface, would know the answer to this—how did humans keep track of their histories and true stories, anyway? Surely they must have some form of Shapers, in some way or another.