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Alis turns with the sound of the fiddle's crescendo, grinning (beaming?) widely at the small, yet growing, audience. Her voice is silent for the time being, the fiddle the only music playing. Even the typical noises of the [outpost] town seem hushed to listen to her playing.
And as she plays, out of the corner of her eyes she catches glimpses of familiar blonde hair, yet every time she turns to look there is nothing there. Her sister's favorite fiddle tune, in a place where her sister is not and cannot be, and so her memory plays tricks on her eyes and eventually she must change the tune before it breaks her down.
Slowly she works with the music, blending two tunes until she can slip from one to another without jarring the audience from their trance, without it being even an obvious shift, to another musician. This is the true meaning of talent, the bardic sense in her allowing such a clever feat. And with the change, she begins to sing, raising a clear alto voive to join with the music as it drifts across the square.
And as she plays, out of the corner of her eyes she catches glimpses of familiar blonde hair, yet every time she turns to look there is nothing there. Her sister's favorite fiddle tune, in a place where her sister is not and cannot be, and so her memory plays tricks on her eyes and eventually she must change the tune before it breaks her down.
Slowly she works with the music, blending two tunes until she can slip from one to another without jarring the audience from their trance, without it being even an obvious shift, to another musician. This is the true meaning of talent, the bardic sense in her allowing such a clever feat. And with the change, she begins to sing, raising a clear alto voive to join with the music as it drifts across the square.