Stormwind City, Friday evening. The Cathedral of Light has hosted its share of grand entrances, but few have received a response quite like Danielle Edith Cawker’s. Guests rose, heads turned and a ripple of gasps travelled through the gathering as the Grand Templar entered in ivory, accompanied by her bridal party and looking, according to the immediate consensus, “radiant”.
The exact construction of the gown was difficult to study through the crowd, an occupational hazard when half of Stormwind appears to have secured an invitation, but its effect was beyond dispute. “Her dress is gorgeous,” was whispered as Cawker made her way up the aisle. One guest called her beautiful another declared her lovely and one guest settled for a breathless, “So pretty.” Even the Cathedral candles faced serious competition.
At the altar waited Animus Whitestrake, wearing a broad smile and a hat sufficiently distinctive to become an early subject of discussion among the younger guests. One admirer called it “fancy” and wondered whether the groom juggled. He does, at least, know when to give the bride the full stage: the moment Cawker entered, Whitestrake removed it.
The guests supplied a show of their own. Formal tabards, polished plate, robes, gowns and carefully arranged hair filled the Cathedral, with several attendees openly assessing one another’s choices before the ceremony began. One Thalassian noble defended her credentials with the entirely reasonable observation that dressing well is what her kind does best. Elsewhere, a guest lowered her hood for the occasion, another lamented forgetting her tabard, and more than one person began planning the rescue of their cosmetics before the vows were halfway through.
Those hoping for discreet society intrigue did not leave wholly disappointed. Ashstarien, introduced as Cawker’s elder sister in all but blood, revealed that the bride once took her shopping and taught her how to wear certain pieces properly and she said the family had once hired an Illidari to determine whether Whitestrake was a rogue incubus.
This was apparently prompted by his resemblance to a certain cursed Lordaeron prince, his immediate effect upon Cawker and the fact that the couple kissed on the first day they met. The investigation appears to have found in the groom’s favour. By Friday evening, Ashstarien described him as committed and tenacious, praised his ability to make Cawker laugh and gave the marriage her “blessing and eternal support”.
She also offered the evening’s least guarded account of the couple’s public affection, recalling the occasions on which the pair appeared to forget that they were in a crowded room. Cawker, by then blushing a spectacular shade of red, could manage only a quiet request for her sister to hush.
Sister Baker officiated the ceremony, opening with a blessing of the Light and recalling the couple’s first sparks during a sparring match in Redridge. She described them as one another’s advocates and sources of strength, then asked the gathered friends and family to support them in married life. The answer came back from across the Cathedral in a resounding chorus of “We will”.
Whitestrake’s vows were classical in shape and deeply romantic in delivery. He called Cawker his dearest friend, steadfast confidante and the love of his life, promising to stand beside her in sickness and in health. He vowed to be her “lighthouse”, “safe harbour” and place of rest when darkness found her path. By the time he finished, his cheeks were flushed and his handkerchief was working nearly as hard as those in the congregation.
Cawker’s reply supplied the intimate detail. The couple met in Redridge when she offered a battle-weary Whitestrake a cup of tea. That courtesy lasted eight hours, interrupted by Cawker donning a diving suit to investigate void pollution and surviving what she identified as the twelfth attempt on her life.
For some women, romance arrives with roses. For Danielle Cawker, it apparently arrived while climbing out of hazardous equipment.
She praised Whitestrake for continuing to return to her side through the chaos, helping her from the suit, bringing tea during long nights of work and occasionally removing enough parchment from her desk to let her breathe. More importantly, she said, he never tried to change her.
“When the world burdens you, I shall be right beside you, not merely encouraging or chanting for you, but lifting with you.”
Cawker promised to hold his hand through the darkest days and to fall in love again with every version of the man he becomes over the years. Around them, handkerchiefs emerged from sleeves and pockets in escalating numbers. Several guests abandoned any pretence of composure, while others fought a determined but largely unsuccessful campaign to preserve their eye make-up.
The couple exchanged rings with visibly shaking hands before Sister Baker pronounced them husband and wife under the authority of the Church of the Holy Light. Cheers filled the Cathedral as Whitestrake was invited to kiss the bride, accompanied by blessings, applause and the triumphant cry of one guest who had spent much of the ceremony confidently predicting that a “smooch” was imminent.
The newlyweds later received guests and gifts at the gazebo in the Cathedral garden before departing for a private celebration. This reporter was invited onward, but an investor meeting intervened. Journalism occasionally demands sacrifice; society reporting, rather more cruelly, demands leaving before the private party.
For Cawker and Whitestrake, however, the evening delivered its essential conclusion: the incubus question is settled, the ivory won the room, and an eight-hour cup of tea has become a marriage.