[Ooc: Ooh, I like that one too! It seems familiar, but I can't place it. I studied mostly english literature here in the states at University, though that was better than 10 years ago... Since then my career took a widely divergent path, so I don't get back to it as much as i'd like...]
When the wagons stop Mira does her best to assist in pitching camp. The others are kind, but it soon becomes clear to her that she is a hindrance; though nobody is rude about it. Leaning against a wagon-wheel she plays her heart-sick tune, longing to return home.
About that time the ladies brought out the trays of meat and cheeses and bread, and bottles of wine and a couple skins of water. They motioned for her to join them in their repast. Her host came out then, carrying a dark-stained fiddle and bow. The other men gathered and everyone took places by the fire on stones or logs. Walking to the fireside he plucked the strings, testing their tuning then drew his bow over once. The smooth, clean sound that came out had a dark, but not sinister, musical quality to it. Though its appearance was nothing special, she could tell it was a finely made instrument.
He began to play. A long, low, sonorous note gently emerged and swung up into a higher register. Down again it fell, repeating quickly before drifting up again. It meandered back and forth like a lazy arpeggio until reaching a crescendo near the highest possible range of the instrument.
At this cue, the raven-haired Lesorna came out. She wore a diaphonous shawl-like veil and a small billowy white top that had a deep neckline and left her midriff exposed as well. Her fingers were bedecked with rings and bracelets of silver, ivory and brass in an ecclectic style that clattered with her movement; all over the white skirt and tassled red shawl tied at her waist. The held note ended abruptly as she struck a coy and humble pose before the fire, quite at odds with her garb.
The pause lasted but an instant, and the violin began slowly; a back-and-forth undulating but gradual climb in pitch. The gypsy mirrored the strains of music with her body, first only the head and shoulders, then adding a step or two before her long, delicate arms and hands wove patterns in the air. The tempo hastened by infinitesimal degrees, and the girl's body responded in perfect harmony to the song. Soon she was twirling and whipping the long veil in her hands to obscure or reveal portions of her movement. The hips joined last, but she swayed and spun as if her spine were made of jelly. The accompaning music vaulted high and low with such speed and virtuosity it was clear the man was a master musician who had likely spent decades honing his technique. Finally, after a particularly virulent stanza, the fiddle ended abruptly and Lesorna fell as if the music had somehow been the only thing to keep her moving.
She sat on the ground at Bertolli's feet, leaned forward and shoulders heaving with breath from the effort. Her hair was disheveled and she turned her face up to him, deep blue-violet eyes glittering in the firelight. He helped her to her feet, saying something quietly in the language of the Visitani. She smiled and blushed, clearly rare for her, and grabbed his arm to lead him to dance as the violin began a more tame melody. The old man, leader of the camp, took out a board with strings that reminded her strongly of a hammered dulcimer. He kept a steady rythm and added trills and the like here and there, but without the virtuosity of the other musician.
[Ooc: Mira can easily choose where to sit, and whether or not she wants to dance or accompany the band, or just enjoy the performance.
The first piece should sound like this:
"Solitaire" by Kamelot]
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