Signy frowned, a somewhat severe and very sudden change, and probably the most forceful expression she'd made in the conversation thus far. She glanced up—and moved her hand, slightly, perplexed when the tiny dog licked her, of all bizarre things—and directed the frown at Savio. Though it was strong for Signy, it was probably a bit hesitant, a bit mild, when compared to how most people looked when they were insulted. Still, it was clear enough.
"I'm not a merchant." Did she look like a merchant? No, she was of a higher, better caste—her mind, pride, and instinct told her smith because that was what she had been for most of her life, ignoring the brief stint as a noble and the fact that she now had no caste at all. Her feelings on that point were clear, though: being called a merchant had been, somehow, an insult perhaps almost as grace as calling the Culture Hound a squirrel. "And beside that, have you ever seen me with any supplies?" She furrowed her brow. "I'm a recruit," she followed up, after a moment, but with somewhat less feeling in her voice.