Signy sniffed, catching a whiff of the last of the Ferelden Stew, and frowning. "Ferelden stew? What is that supposed to be, exactly? They kept making it on the road, and nobody ever answered that question very satisfactorily." Nor could her taste buds answer it for her; the stuff was gruel and mush and unidentifiable content besides.
She closed the final distance to stand by the table and look down at the Culture Hound; though being compared to a ball of fluff wasn't the most flattering thing in the world, Signy was pleased to speak with a surfacer that knew more about dwarves than short, like ale, make things. She smiled a little. "So what is his—his? her? its?—purpose, then?"