Dominika Kovač Pignatelli
Standing apart, Dominika found herself finally smiling, a hand politely covering her mouth as she had been recently taught. The Marchioness, Nadine Lucienne, had swept in like motherly goose to save her, to shield her beneath the great sweeping wings of her dress, and to save her from a most uncomfortable moment of self-induced awkwardness. She could hardly follow what the august woman said, but she smiled when she should, and listened when she could, fighting the urge to vomit. She suspected the Marchioness could tell her discomfort, but she charitably continued talking, gracefully guiding Dominika through the conversation. A kindness, Dominika gratefully resolved she would not soon forget.
Waiting upon the hallowed grounds of the cathedral, bright awe burned within her. She carried the faith of the newly received, noble aspirations tempered still only by the limits of her quiet hope. The room loomed larger than the preceding hall, heavy purpose distorting physical reality. It was impossible to fail to notice the tension. The pursed lips. The long, mournful gazes. The eyes that seemed hard steel forged with obvious anger. A multitude of other expressions had taken form on the faces scattered across the chamber.
It had been a solemn occasion, a ceremony touched by tragedy, and yet she hoped sorrow that could be mended by the mercy of the Goddess. Her own ceremony, her blessing...Ionna's blessing she remembered with no such apprehension. She doubted many things, herself most of all, but she did not doubt the Templar and her earnest desires to protect her. Beneath a fresh layer of anxiety, induced by the increasingly complex situation that seemed to be brewing following the Blessing, Dominika could not help but think back to short months earlier. The memory lingered as if the Blessing had just occurred. She could remember every moment. The immeasurable joy and the surety that had enveloped her like the soft embrace of the Goddess. She felt fortunate Ionna was her Templar. She had been kind and sweet, even then. She was pleased with her, and hoped that Ionna was pleased with her in turn.
Perhaps she would ask her more about...Lost in her thoughts, Dominika caught the sweet chiding of the Marchioness by fortune alone. She carefully stored the advice she remembered, knowing that her brief respite was soon ending. She offered a most sincere curtsy to the Scion of Lightning, happy to have been with such kindness. It was a small mercy that her aide had suggested a modest dress, of a middling length, cast in an elegant gray, patterned with fine lines of silver and a simple veil to match. She would not have trusted herself in a lengthy gown. The young Rosarian woman, Catalina, had come at the recommendation of the Archbishop Elijah. She knew fabric as Dominika knew metal and spoke of fashion that the newly minted Scion could scarcely imagine, never mind understand. To be dressed by another, was a strange experience, but Dominika had come to rely on her many new advisors. The Archbishop had repeatedly assured her that there was no shame in asking for help.
Immobile, as if teetering on the edge of a cliff of social doubt, Dominika felt a sudden nudge. A gentle push on her shoulder, and turning once more she was met with the smile of the Marchioness.
Go, she heard whispered tenderly, encouragement apparent in the woman's kindly manner and her subtle nod in the direction of the other Scions and accompanying Templars. Dominika drew a deep breath, letting her shoulders rise up and then down, as she hammered her resolve into a useful tool. Complying, she willed her feet to move forwards, swallowing small bits of iron, her feelings, with each step that she took.
What did one talk about with someone famous? Oh, how nice to meet you, I've seen your Instagram posts, they're very cool, I love your dress, can I see your hammer, want to be friends?Dominika tried to recall a topic. She desperately tried to think of something interesting. Something recent, but nothing sad, and nothing controversial. No politics, never, never on holy ground. She tried to find someone to address, someone to talk to. Half heard words sprang back into her thoughts. Bakeries promised for a simple secret. Her eyes darted across the room, urgently seeking her Templar. Relief laden laughter threatened to escape her when she finally spotted Ionna.
There Ionna stood. Seemingly unconcerned by the famed Scions and noteworthy Templars that surrounded her. Happily chatting, bristling with the infectious cheer and good-will with which Dominika had come to know her. High Cardinal Margaret had told Dominika to rely on her templar. So she would listen. She plotted a safe course, maintaining the steady caution of a ship caught in stormy seas, and drifted silently across the polished floor until she stood in front of Ionna and a masked templar. She would not disappoint them, Ionna least of all.
"Pardon the interruption, but I would trade a secret for a cookie," she began, her heart fluttering as the gears began to turn in her head. "I always dreamt of building a flying machine. A sleek iron bird with metal wings that could soar in the blue skies that float above the seas. Silly, I know, but...I- I also know how to circumvent the sonar system on the new Cordis-class Frigate! Allegedly..."Letting her story fade with a panicked shrug, Dominika reached for a chocolate chip cookie, convinced that she had fairly paid her dues. She bit down cheerfully on the cookie she had claimed, carefully wiping her mouth and fingers after with a silk handkerchief fished out from her purse, cognizant of the high company she now kept. Hiding most of her hesitation behind a newly formed smile, Dominika spoke earnestly,
"I agree with Dame Ionna, Sir Templar, you have a very cool visor. The metal work is exquisite, truly the work of a great master or several."
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