--KATARINE--
It was the Lord's day.
In accordance with that, she'd polished her armor till it reflected the sun in hard glints of light, ironing and starching her tabard to crisp stiffness, scrubbed her face clean, and plaited her hair into a a tight bun. To present anything less than the best for Ansgar was to disrespect the One, particularly in his own House.
Satisfied, the Adhara clinked off from the barracks and towards the great temple of Ansgar, her scarred chin lofted. A few people muttered
hullos to her or dipped their heads in respect for the sigil emblazoned on her tabard.
Filthy commoners, she thought, pursing her lips at the crowd of people slowly shuffling into the church.
"Part," she barked, pale hand twitching on the pommel of her sword. "I have business in the Temple.
Aside." Eyes widened, the rabble parted for her as if she were the prow of a ship cutting through water; she could see atop most of the parishioners and to the great, open oak doors welcoming them like open arms.
Someone flapped a pamphlet in her direction but she barely registered their existence. She'd just opened her mouth to greet Father Perry, but instead he attention was drawn to the small boy that near-barreled into the priest.
OOF! To her horror, water sprayed from the urn—and then, to her
further horror, seemed to glide off the boy without effect. The front of his robes did not sop wet, nor did it dent the grubbiness on his face.
Was she imagining things...? Katarine's cold eyes narrowed, fixing the boy with sudden suspicion.
No, surely not..."Be careful where you're going, boy," she warned in a low voice, squatting to better study him. Her gaze scanned his face, from the shock of red hair to his gormless brown eyes and dirty cheeks.
God, he was filthy! In church, of all places! "Holy water is a precious thing. To spill it is heresy."
