"You're right," Ripley cups her chin in her hand, swirls around her glass of lavender tea. "I can't imagine we'd give the crowd anything by way of a satisfying reaction." Is it a little underhanded? Perhaps. Does she think any less of the Flower Queen for bursting into unrestrained tears, despite not knowing the reason for them? No, Ripley simply observes. Suspects there's more at play than simple winner's flattery.

The use of risk, however, makes her snicker. It really is an apt word, for she had taken a risk unknowingly, involving herself in ceremonies she'd had no precedent of. Now she's paying for them, satisfying CT with her little discomforts, much to Ripley's chagrin.

Well, she can't say she doesn't deserve it. She is the one who put her name on the ballot in the first place.

But maybe this could be nice. The tasty abundance offers more variety than what her meager salary allows— diet consisting mostly of bland oatmeals and whatever stew the O&I serves— and Ripley isn't shy in picking out what she wants.

"Some kind of death ceremony, I'm guessing?" A low purr of intrigue. "Somehow all of this makes my experience back home feel so... Austere. You were lucky to get a birthday party, let alone celebrate the coming and going of seasons."

She eyes the crowd like their presence is some thinly veiled threat.

"I had no idea there were so many people here."