The stranger breaks the silence and at his words the dark-eyed fawn hesitates, flicking her whiskers in consideration.  He had beckoned her towards him, tempting her with the offer of food.  But he had seemed to be doing well on his own, catching his own share of fish.. why would he be lying to her?  Perhaps she was being too cautious.

Raising her nose to the air, she whiffed tentatively; he did not smell of anyone she knew, enemy or friend.  She made her way over to where the man had indicated, moving cautiously before continuing to make a fool of herself in front of him.  Growing up in the valleys she was used to rabbits and ungulates — fishing was an entirely different rodeo.  The water they lived in clogged her nares and impaired her vision.  The willowy fawn huffed in frustration before pushing her face underwater once more, finally grasping a wriggling fish.

Boy, they were stronger than she expected!  But she held tight, carrying it triumphantly to land before devouring her kill in the blink of an eye.  Once her stomach was full she thought to acknowledge the stranger. Thank you very much for the advice, it is appreciated.  I come from a land where we do not have these creatures, catching them is different than hunting rabbit or deer.

She seems to take his words kindly. He sits and watches passively as she catches herself a meal. Is it rude, he wonders, to linger, when no real connection had been established between them? Well - but then she speaks to him finally and his unease settles. "Of course," Étoille murmurs, inclining his head. "It is difficult," he agrees after a moment, thinking of his own background. He hadn't seen the sea before his arrival to Gnarled Oaks, but there'd  been rivers and streams. Fishing isn't a complete novelty. "I've been by rivers, but the sea is still..." the man trails off. 'New' isn't quite right at this point, with how much time he's squandered walking and looking at it. "I'm still intrigued by it," he finally settles on. 

Speaking with others is starting to feel more natural. He glances at the ocean and back to the woman. She's - smaller than him, naturally, and snowy white, and he's not a superstitious man, but if he were he would wonder at the frequency of his encounters with white-furred women. "I am Étoille," the beast introduces himself politely, and lets the flow of conversation fall to her.

Her formality takes the large man by surprise. It makes him feel he is being too casual, and so he returns the gesture with a graceful dip of his own head. "Mirabelle," Étoille repeats. Something about her is striking to him: she's a character of sorts. Like royalty, perhaps. He hums, thinking over her words as he looks back at the shore. "Oui, along those lines," the man agrees. "Once I was told a story of wolves that traveled the sea," he says, a touch absently. "A fable, that is. The details I forget." 

He's echoing the conversation he had with Maera, he realises with a touch of embarrassment. Quickly to change the subject, the beast adds, "is your Éireann far from here?"