Bella waits alone. The stillness of the air has a physical presence; she can hear it whenever she moves. Only the rustle of her dress, only the breath in her lungs, only the clack of her shoes, only the steady clunk of glasses being set on tables keep her company. Each one is swallowed up by the vastness of the observation deck, now bathed only in pink light so bright and gaudy it turns even her raven-black hair to a strange shade of purple. 

She shrugs it all off. Her senses feel muddled in this place. The rush of feet and the crying of a hundred voices are all around her and a kilometer away at the same time. She can't let it bother her. Unlike everyone else on the [i]Plousios,[/i] she still has a job to do. One hundred forty one, one hundred forty two, one hundred forty three... she drowns out the distractions. She dares to cleave the air with her presence. She ignores the way the Rift is upsetting her sense of colors, only blinking as she moves until her Auspex adjusts the room for her. 

Practice makes perfect. One hundred forty eight, one hundred forty nine. The last glass is still in her hand when the awkward tripod-clunking sprint she's been hearing for the last fifteen minutes finally enters the room instead of merely echoing through the hallways into her skull. She glances up from her work to see the scarred and wizened badger face of Iskarot, the Hermetic magus that (she was told) was in charge of keeping this ship operational. Her first new companion.

"...Fuck." she observes, without a shred of shame or tact.

Suddenly she is vaulting over her carefully arranged tables. She is a meteor, tearing through the air with palpable heat and the promise of absolute death when she lands. She crashes to the ground and the impact rattles the entire ship down to its bones. Elsewhere, the Tides are briefly shaken from their meditation. Bella towers over the magus, and shadows darken her face. In the pink light her claws shine like diamonds with every slightest twitch of her fingers. A single animistic snarl passes for a warning.

She sighs, and reaches for the bottle. She pours too hastily to quite capture the bouquet the way that she knew brought out the best in this vintage. But there's nothing for it: she's out of time.

"You took a shortcut, you asshole. I was supposed to have three more minutes to get this set up."

Well, she's good and on the clock now. She hands the glass over and promptly dives back into her work, pouring swiftly and carefully now. She rotates between each hand, one pouring from a height of one meter while the other grabs the previous glass and swirls it three times, counterclockwise, for the exact correct presentation. This is a momentous occasion. She thought about it for hours, and hours after that. And in the end, this was all she could think of to share it with everyone. 

The Lanterns had held onto all of her treasures, even through the brief reign of Sagakhan. And when they had decided to depart with their ship, they left behind more than just their champions. Bella had accrued an extremely impressive and fantastically heavy collection of wine, and with goodbye finally on their lips at last they saw no value in preserving it. Three times, Bella turned them down. 'Leave it for Hades if you hate it that much,' she'd told them. On the fourth negotiation they'd simply skipped over her and brought it aboard while she was busy with Redana. 

But thank the gods for the stubbornness of mice. Now she had more than enough stock to do... anything she wanted, really, for the entire crossing and possibly years beyond that if she made it that far. In its haste to appease her the [i]Yakanov[/i] had buried her in gifts, but it was the last of her plunder from Baradissar she was using here. Too many hermetics on board, it felt weird gifting them their own creations. And besides, Molech had no business crossing this scar he'd made except in everyone's stomachs. His legacy would die at last, one final murder before she gives up the trade forever. 

More people pour in. In clumps, in pairs, all alone they come. Many catch Bella in the act of serving, and each of these gets an increasingly frustrated and nastier swear directed across the room. But none of them had gotten the jump on her the way that Iskarot had. All of them have a glass, at least, waiting for them. If not for everyone. 

Now the hall is filled with laughter. Now it is filled with warmth and drink and even food that mixes into a delicate cocktail of smells that lights the room ablaze like the merriest of fires. Epistia holds the mysterious sword and everywhere she passes there is calm in her wake. Beljani's tail is wagging with absolute delight, and Scribe stretches its glyph-filled wings on her shoulder. Mynx enters, and immediately takes her place by Bella's side and refuses to leave. Beautiful flits about the room with a dreamy expression on her face and a fedora tilted halfway off her head, grilling and interrogating everyone she corners for the sheer thrill of forgetting it all again as soon as she can. 

Jil is sipping juice, the only one on the deck gifted something different though she is none the wiser for it. All around her the champions of the Lanterns rattle about with a sense of puffed up importance. There are dozens of people here she cannot name, and she hands them each a glass just the same. Dolce has done no cooking, and will do no serving. Not this time, you little punk. Here at the end, we feast. We party. Leave the work to the one who planned it. Go ahead and take notes: despite her furious efforts she has not surpassed you, but in a dish or two she's gotten unnervingly close. Bella guffaws at the sour look that Vasilia wears on her face, and passes her by without a care or concern for what might happen. 

But everywhere she goes, the scent she notices first is Redana. Redana, Redana, Redana. Here at the end. Here at the beginning. Here. With her. Bella raises the one hundred and fiftieth glass to the sky, and a room full of Imperial vintage and majesty does the same. In this moment all eyes are on her. In this moment faces that have seen the worst of her look upon her with smiles, and some even with admiration. In this moment, the regalia resting in her hair shines with the glory of the stars. 

And this? This is a place of honor.