[h3]Polina Laye[/h3][i]Farisian Maid[/i]

[hr]
Once on deck, Polina began to hand out her little ration packets, ahead of the arrival of the officers. This she carried out mostly silently, almost as if she were handing out actual field rations. Depending on how things turned later on, they might actually act as emergency field rations for some. Regardless, it gave her a good excuse to look nearly each maid and fellow ‘recruit’ in the eye and get their measure. 

It seemed, at the very least, her cohort was a very eclectic bunch. One, clearly, was a simple chef pressganged for something far over her head; another, a rare dark-elf, and one that seemed to genocide the culinary arts at that; lastly, there was also a cat with a small marching army of dolls. There were a few more that stood out too, though it became very clear that the Firbolg had some sort of the death wish by the way she controlled her dolls. 

Not that it was a criticism in any way. It was amusing if anything, and Myrilla was the sort of toxic authority figure that commanded more ridicule than respect. That, like many other things, was an opinion that she would keep to herself. Polina did however, decide to go out of her way to stoop down and present the cheeky doll with its own bag of confections, still maintaining her characteristically serious face as she did so. 

She’d finished handing out most of the sweets when she got into line with most of the other recruits. It was a bit of a jarring change, transferring from a position of relative authority to a junior role once more, but for a temporary assignment, it was not so bad for the sake of the mission and for the pursuit of more experience. From the position of a somewhat older, more experience maid –even if she was in her early twenties, she been a maid for almost a decade now—the mind games that Myrilla played were obvious and far more tolerable knowing what was up. 

So when the taskmistress of a maid disparaged her cooking and ground her pastry into the wooden decking of the airship, she offered her a raised eyebrow. Polina knew her cooking was good. Especially her baking skills. It was Myrilla’s own loss if she tossed out her own macarons. 

She did, however, use some slight-of-hand to slip the woman a new bag of macarons into one of her dress pockets as she turned away to dress down another hapless maid down the line, which in this case, seemed to be Kat. Well, that would be interesting.