/ MÍRA /
It seems the woman wishes her to take care of the fish first before herself. Míra murmurs an affirmative in her direction and turns her attention to the catch.
She hauls the fish up; a flick of her wrist makes its weight slightly more bearable to wrestle away from the riverbank. A little bit of magic is cheating, the Polina in her head reprimands, but really. There are hungry people up and about that will require sustenance. The faster they get to prepare their meal, the better.
Upon returning to the gathering by the firepit, Míra places the fish down and pivots to stride back over to the other woman's side. "Let me help you up," she tells the woman, reaching out and taking hold of her hand, moving to guide and support. Together, they make their way towards the others.
“Just out of curiosity, how big is that thing anyway?”
Igni beats her to a reply, but she finds herself compelled to help reinforce the thought. "Yes, it's rather humongous. Enough to perhaps feed all of us, though I believe some of the others might want second or third helpings if we cook this right."
The old man appears to have cleared off a space for the preparation of the fish, a sheet laid out over the grass a few ways away from the rest of the gathered partygoers. She listens but does not turn to look over her shoulder as Emilio calls out in the direction of the nearby sycamore tree, questioning one of the others about blades, and whether they have any that can be employed in service of preparing the fish.
Well. It's a good thing she has come ready for this very sort of thing, then. Polina would have her head if she hadn't the knife set available on her person at such an occasion. (It had been a gift on the opening of her new theatre back in Blairville. Aside from food preparation, they have their uses elsewhere.)
Míra takes it upon herself to start deboning the fish, welcoming helping hands should any be forthcoming. She sits herself down on the sheet, producing a sharp knife from her leather roll. Her movements are jerky, the motions rusty but ultimately held together tight by muscle memory: make a small cut through the base of the tail. Loosen the flesh from the skin. Slide the knife down, discard any small scales that get caught.
Igni's question about her clothing makes her halt for a moment, blade halfway through the fish. Fish out of water, indeed? She is about to answer—something about not expecting the party to be this in touch with nature, something about only being used to the soirées of high society, where everyone is prim and proper and secrets flow as easy as brandy—but then the woman continues.
“I correct myself: it seems nothing is out of place here, least of all you.”
"It appears you might be right," Míra replies, a quiet smile playing on her lips. She continues working, her gaze on the fish under her hands but with one ear open to the proceedings around.
@Venus Sprite @DarkHorse
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