Ingrid always had an appetite. She loved food, almost voraciously, and it was the singular aspect about her which could destroy her nearly perfect image. As a member of House Galatea (and as a noble in Fodlan in general), image was greatly important to her, and it wasn't often being sacrificed for the sake of other things. Rather, other things were sacrificed so that the people—commoners and nobility alike—could continue seeing her as she was.
A prize. A woman to be wed to another prosperous family, a daughter that could be used as a pawn for whatever her father may wish. She could close her eyes, and her mind would bring her back to the good old days, where she, Dimitri, Felix, and Sylvain ran wild across Faerghus fields, hiding in the banisters of grand staircases, making their servants red in the face as they tried to herd the noble children in vain pursuit.
She never forgot the sight of Glenn, either, who was too old and too cool for their childish games, but he still lingered around them as if he were a guard, and not the then-current heir to House Fraldarius. She never forgot the sight of him, ever.
Those days were far and long gone, or so it seemed. They would never come back, no matter how much any of them wished for it. And besides, Ingrid knew better than to hold old promises to them, to the boys who were slowly becoming men—learning what it means to live and let live in this world. She knew better than to expect things from the unexpected, which was why she clung carefully (yet hesitantly) to her father's demands, and why she shunned away anything that couldn't fit into her perfect little world.
At least when she stuffed her face full of food, she'd be able to forget everything, if only for a moment. So Ingrid cast the doubts she had aside, and focused on the fishing rod in front of her. The line sunk down into the bottom, and she already felt the force of something at the other end—something that was hooked, and desperately tried to change its fate.
Ingrid felt bad for the fish, with fleeting thoughts of what it would be like had their roles been reversed. Although she was sure that, given the chance, the fish wouldn't think twice about her. A predator and prey, a victim and assailant, a victor and loser never thought much about one another once the chase was over. Even if the rest of the world carried on with their scars and burdens, the passion of the experience was felt and lost in the same fell swoop.
Ingrid's eyes widened at the sight of her catch—a large bullhead, shiny and slimy, gaping for water and breath—as she held it triumphantly in one hand, and used the other hand to wipe the gleaming sweat off her brow.
The moment was over, and the passion was gone.
At least her stomach was full.
