. A gemshorn and a mandolin strike up counterpoint melodies, as a harp and viola caress the notes of a minuet. Soft waves of music creep around the joy of the Hall, cuddling the fibres of granite stone with a warming fire for all.
And she steps to the fore, slippers of silk gliding so slow, eyes as blue as robins eggs, smile sweet as a full moons glow. Hair laced with summer flowers, a long dress of velvet green, and the shawm she is ready to play held lightly by fingers so keen.
Her tongue moistens shyly, as the reed approaches her lips, with fingers dancing over holes, and deftly into a trance she slips. Descending chords in choral hue, drip colours into an aching heart, the sweetest of mediaeval muses, playing well her minstrels part.