"Long ago on an island at the northern edge of the world, there lived a fisherman called Neil MacCodrum. He lived all alone in a stone croft where the moorland meets the shore, with nothing but the guillemots for company and the stirring of the sand among the shingle for song ..."
The rhythmic beat of the little drum in her hands lay soft and compelling beneath the words the bard spoke, mingling with the soft rumble of chatter in the furthest corners of the tavern and the gentle crackle of the logs in the fireplace as they cast burning wisps of heat and light out to illuminate the woman sat closeby, weaving a tale of sorrow and joy with nothing but words for the delight of those who sat by and listened.
This was what Siouxie lived for. Alone since the death of her mother some eight years before, she had wandered from place to place, earning her living by the talent and skills she had acquired in her long training among the bards of her father's people. Seven long years she had studied with them, learning the art of the word and the voice, the trick to playing any instrument that came to her hands, to dance to any beat that was given.
In that time, she had learned how to harness the gifts that came with her mixed heritage. From her mother, she had received the warmth and empathy of humanity, the ability to feel deeply and project that feeling out so that others could see and feel with her. From her father's elven kin had come the near unique talent to change the cast and timbre of her voice, the slant of her features, to take on any character you could care to name, be they male, female, human or otherwise.
The bards had taken her when she was six years old, trained her for seven long years away from family and friends. Thanks to their teaching, she held in her mind hundreds of stories that could be told at the fireside, hundreds of songs that could be sung for listening or dancing, the wisdom of those tales and tunes distilled into single phrases. Though her training was not of her choosing, she had chosen to continue with it, to earn her living with it all the days of her life.
Her father had lived long enough to see his daughter the toast of the taverns in the city where they lived, yet he had always longed for more for her. He had made her promise, as he lay dying, that she would step beyond the boundaries she had made for herself, that she would explore each and every avenue of performance that she could.
True to her promise, she had chosen a new path, discovering theatre and the joys it brought forth. It was in this arena that her ability to become a character was best put to use, though she was happy no matter what part she was given. Be it chorus or lead, Siouxie had no unpleasant memories of being in a theatre or on a stage.
Then her mother had died, lost to the ravages of human age and illness, and Siouxie had become a wanderer, seeking to escape the pain of her childhood memories in new places. Wherever she wandered, wherever she stopped, folk were in need of entertainment, be it stories, or songs, or music, or dancing. All of these, the young half-elven bard could supply, and she revelled in the simple delight of transforming a small community's weariness for a few short hours with the power of voice and hands.
But the day came when this was no longer enough, when the travelling began to wear on her, and she longed for a place she could call home once again. Her weary feet had brought her to a place called Rhy'Din, a place where magic abounded like the realm of her father, long since lost to her. She had investigated the theatres, but had had no courage to seek employment there. So again, she had turned back to the ways of the bard, selling her stories and songs and music in taverns, buying herself a night's rest and an evening meal with a few hours of entertainment for those who gathered as the evenings shortened once more.
She took to walking about the city, seeking out a place where she might find some form of homeliness, and in her seeking, she came across something that piqued her interest.
http://i634.photobucket.com/albums/uu69/Hatsu-Hana/Lelah/open-auditions.gif
Open auditions for performance in a style she had not yet encountered, much less experienced for herself. The old promise she had made to her father awoke within her once again, and she had found herself smiling as she made her way along to these 21twelve studios. If she was received well, she would add another string to her bow. If not, she would return to her current life none the worse for the experience.
But for now, she was here, awaiting the answer. The firelight reflected from raven-black hair, dusky skin, clever fingers beating out a regular irregularity of rhythm against her little hand-drum. A wide mouth blessed with a propensity toward smiles rather than frowns wove the threads of the story toward their conclusion; deep blue eyes, so out of place in the almost human appearance she put forth, glistened with the unshed tears of her hero as he settled down in sorrow to reflect on the joys of his lifetime.
This was the bard's way, the bard's life. To tell a story and make it believable, even for just a few short hours. To help others forget their cares and worries until the tale came to its end. But life went on, and each new turning was just another chapter in its continuation. So too would these auditions be; simply a new experience, be it successful or not, to add to the store of experience she was gathering of characters and tales and deep-felt emotion.
" ....but in the long winter evenings he would sit by the peat-fire and watch the blue smoke curling up to the roof, and his eyes looked far and far away as if he was looking into another country. And sometimes, when the wind rustled the bent-grass on the machair, he seemed to hear a soft voice sighing his name."
The rhythmic beat of the little drum in her hands lay soft and compelling beneath the words the bard spoke, mingling with the soft rumble of chatter in the furthest corners of the tavern and the gentle crackle of the logs in the fireplace as they cast burning wisps of heat and light out to illuminate the woman sat closeby, weaving a tale of sorrow and joy with nothing but words for the delight of those who sat by and listened.
This was what Siouxie lived for. Alone since the death of her mother some eight years before, she had wandered from place to place, earning her living by the talent and skills she had acquired in her long training among the bards of her father's people. Seven long years she had studied with them, learning the art of the word and the voice, the trick to playing any instrument that came to her hands, to dance to any beat that was given.
In that time, she had learned how to harness the gifts that came with her mixed heritage. From her mother, she had received the warmth and empathy of humanity, the ability to feel deeply and project that feeling out so that others could see and feel with her. From her father's elven kin had come the near unique talent to change the cast and timbre of her voice, the slant of her features, to take on any character you could care to name, be they male, female, human or otherwise.
The bards had taken her when she was six years old, trained her for seven long years away from family and friends. Thanks to their teaching, she held in her mind hundreds of stories that could be told at the fireside, hundreds of songs that could be sung for listening or dancing, the wisdom of those tales and tunes distilled into single phrases. Though her training was not of her choosing, she had chosen to continue with it, to earn her living with it all the days of her life.
Her father had lived long enough to see his daughter the toast of the taverns in the city where they lived, yet he had always longed for more for her. He had made her promise, as he lay dying, that she would step beyond the boundaries she had made for herself, that she would explore each and every avenue of performance that she could.
True to her promise, she had chosen a new path, discovering theatre and the joys it brought forth. It was in this arena that her ability to become a character was best put to use, though she was happy no matter what part she was given. Be it chorus or lead, Siouxie had no unpleasant memories of being in a theatre or on a stage.
Then her mother had died, lost to the ravages of human age and illness, and Siouxie had become a wanderer, seeking to escape the pain of her childhood memories in new places. Wherever she wandered, wherever she stopped, folk were in need of entertainment, be it stories, or songs, or music, or dancing. All of these, the young half-elven bard could supply, and she revelled in the simple delight of transforming a small community's weariness for a few short hours with the power of voice and hands.
But the day came when this was no longer enough, when the travelling began to wear on her, and she longed for a place she could call home once again. Her weary feet had brought her to a place called Rhy'Din, a place where magic abounded like the realm of her father, long since lost to her. She had investigated the theatres, but had had no courage to seek employment there. So again, she had turned back to the ways of the bard, selling her stories and songs and music in taverns, buying herself a night's rest and an evening meal with a few hours of entertainment for those who gathered as the evenings shortened once more.
She took to walking about the city, seeking out a place where she might find some form of homeliness, and in her seeking, she came across something that piqued her interest.
http://i634.photobucket.com/albums/uu69/Hatsu-Hana/Lelah/open-auditions.gif
Open auditions for performance in a style she had not yet encountered, much less experienced for herself. The old promise she had made to her father awoke within her once again, and she had found herself smiling as she made her way along to these 21twelve studios. If she was received well, she would add another string to her bow. If not, she would return to her current life none the worse for the experience.
But for now, she was here, awaiting the answer. The firelight reflected from raven-black hair, dusky skin, clever fingers beating out a regular irregularity of rhythm against her little hand-drum. A wide mouth blessed with a propensity toward smiles rather than frowns wove the threads of the story toward their conclusion; deep blue eyes, so out of place in the almost human appearance she put forth, glistened with the unshed tears of her hero as he settled down in sorrow to reflect on the joys of his lifetime.
This was the bard's way, the bard's life. To tell a story and make it believable, even for just a few short hours. To help others forget their cares and worries until the tale came to its end. But life went on, and each new turning was just another chapter in its continuation. So too would these auditions be; simply a new experience, be it successful or not, to add to the store of experience she was gathering of characters and tales and deep-felt emotion.
" ....but in the long winter evenings he would sit by the peat-fire and watch the blue smoke curling up to the roof, and his eyes looked far and far away as if he was looking into another country. And sometimes, when the wind rustled the bent-grass on the machair, he seemed to hear a soft voice sighing his name."