Alexa kneels before the alter of Hera, face cool against the tiles, and tells herself, again, that this isn't a snub. She...

Well, she doesn't have that much to give. The only things that she truly, unequivocally owns are her spears, her shield, and a precious piece of parchment occupying a place of pride on Alexa's shelf.

(It took some doing to convince herself it was safe there. That it wouldn't be found, opened, abused or taken. But, well... Well. She'll open it. Soon. And maybe, just maybe, she'll be allowed to make it some friends? Some other memories to put on the shelf.)

To her left, Redana's offering sits there, as if taunting her with how much better it is than her own--simple, heartfelt, symbolically meaningful--even in hardship, the offering of someone bargaining for empire.

She does her best not to look at the plate in front of her. To Dolce's credit, this version survived the oven mostly intact, which is more than can be said of the other attempts currently smoldering in the sink. She makes a note to scrub the charcoal out of the pans after this. It's not fair that the delightful chef should clean her mess.

There are no illusions that this is an acceptable offering for the queen of the gods, of she who walks vested in wealth. But it's all she has to offer, and she just hopes it's enough to buy a small bit of protection for those she cares for. A breeze at the right moment, an eccentric that fails to charge fast enough. Just enough to make sure that everybody who leaves the ship also comes back.