- Messages
- 249
- Character Biography
- Link
The song-weaver made her way through the autumn festival's lively crowd, her presence met with many warm smiles and calls to drink herself silly with them. Soon, but not yet. First, she would make her performance for the festival. Her tribute to the fallen dead and the celebrations of their sacrifices needed to be honored before she could indulge in hedonistic revelry with the rest of her friends.
Golden leaves swirled in the cool breeze, accompanying her steps by the soft rustling of her deep green skirts, her stomach bare and her breasts bound by a golden beaded bandeau. Her biceps were wrapped in matching metal bands and her curls were adorned with gilded beads and clasps in intricate braids. Her movements were a languid dance as she moved toward the elder's fire where the embodied manifestation of spirits hypnotized the crowd. The warm glow of the flames flickering in her eyes, casting an ethereal light upon her strong elven features.
The music called to her, it called to something in her blood.
It was made of drums and cellos and violins, their sound triumphant. A rallying horn to her spirit.
With a serene smile, Petra took her place by the other musicians, they nodded to her with eagerness, the last melodies of their song fading in preparation for this new one. Her fingers took up the harp that rested against the log they sat in. Her talons gently brushed the strings, producing a soft, melodic hum that resonated with the pining melancholy that death brought. But choosing against it, she set it back down and stood in front of the throng of musicians.
Taking a stance, she made eye contact with a few amongst the crowd, before turning her cheek to quickly nod to the troupe behind her.
On a swelling erotic beat, Petra began to dance. Her melodious voice matched the beat and her body seemed to come alive with the music. Her graceful movements meant to mesmerize, each step and sway timed to the rhythm of her song.
Her hips swayed sensuously to the cadence of the drums, moving in sinuous circles that mirrored the ebb and flow of the music. Her skirts, adorned with intricate golden embroidery, swirled around her like a whirlwind of autumn leaves caught in a gentle breeze. The fabric clung to her form, accentuating her curve as she moved.
Her fingers seemed to caress invisible threads of magic, pulling them into her dance and infusing each movement with a sense of reverence.
Petra's feet barely seemed to touch the ground as she glided and twirled with an innate grace.
Her song told tales of valor and love, of heroes long gone and those still among them, and of the changing seasons that mirrored the cycle of life and death. As she sang, her magic intertwined with the melody, weaving a tapestry of longing that hung in the air like glistening threads of light.
People gathered around the fire, their faces illuminated by Petra's enchanting performance. Some swayed to the rhythm of her voice, while others closed their eyes, lost in memories of loved ones. The festival transformed into a moment of reflection and celebration, a tribute to the fallen, and a reminder of the beauty that persisted even in the face of loss.
The fire crackled and danced to her tune, its flames leaping higher with every note, as if joining in the song of remembrance and renewal. And so, beneath the autumn moon, Petra's voice filled the night, carrying the spirits of the departed and the hopes of the living, blending the magic of the festival with the magic of her song.
Golden leaves swirled in the cool breeze, accompanying her steps by the soft rustling of her deep green skirts, her stomach bare and her breasts bound by a golden beaded bandeau. Her biceps were wrapped in matching metal bands and her curls were adorned with gilded beads and clasps in intricate braids. Her movements were a languid dance as she moved toward the elder's fire where the embodied manifestation of spirits hypnotized the crowd. The warm glow of the flames flickering in her eyes, casting an ethereal light upon her strong elven features.
The music called to her, it called to something in her blood.
It was made of drums and cellos and violins, their sound triumphant. A rallying horn to her spirit.
With a serene smile, Petra took her place by the other musicians, they nodded to her with eagerness, the last melodies of their song fading in preparation for this new one. Her fingers took up the harp that rested against the log they sat in. Her talons gently brushed the strings, producing a soft, melodic hum that resonated with the pining melancholy that death brought. But choosing against it, she set it back down and stood in front of the throng of musicians.
Taking a stance, she made eye contact with a few amongst the crowd, before turning her cheek to quickly nod to the troupe behind her.
On a swelling erotic beat, Petra began to dance. Her melodious voice matched the beat and her body seemed to come alive with the music. Her graceful movements meant to mesmerize, each step and sway timed to the rhythm of her song.
Her hips swayed sensuously to the cadence of the drums, moving in sinuous circles that mirrored the ebb and flow of the music. Her skirts, adorned with intricate golden embroidery, swirled around her like a whirlwind of autumn leaves caught in a gentle breeze. The fabric clung to her form, accentuating her curve as she moved.
Her fingers seemed to caress invisible threads of magic, pulling them into her dance and infusing each movement with a sense of reverence.
Petra's feet barely seemed to touch the ground as she glided and twirled with an innate grace.
Her song told tales of valor and love, of heroes long gone and those still among them, and of the changing seasons that mirrored the cycle of life and death. As she sang, her magic intertwined with the melody, weaving a tapestry of longing that hung in the air like glistening threads of light.
People gathered around the fire, their faces illuminated by Petra's enchanting performance. Some swayed to the rhythm of her voice, while others closed their eyes, lost in memories of loved ones. The festival transformed into a moment of reflection and celebration, a tribute to the fallen, and a reminder of the beauty that persisted even in the face of loss.
The fire crackled and danced to her tune, its flames leaping higher with every note, as if joining in the song of remembrance and renewal. And so, beneath the autumn moon, Petra's voice filled the night, carrying the spirits of the departed and the hopes of the living, blending the magic of the festival with the magic of her song.