(no subject)

[minstrel-show.livejournal.com]

...where are they? You can't entirely be sure.

A jingle here.

A twang over there.

A flash of a hat too large to be anything but ridiculous...and yet still, they evade your sight.

It's Wednesday. Yes, oh, yes, it's Wednesday.

Fear.

Comments

[minstrel-show.livejournal.com]

They creep stealthily, because really there aren't very many ways to creep that are worth actually attempting other than stealthily, behind Naraht. There's nothing wrong with getting a little practice in, eh?

Lovely random woman
We've come to sing your song
Because it is a Wednesday,
Lovely random woman...
The Union sanctioned this whole day
To be used for fun and games
Lovely lovely lovely random woman.
And we'll follow you round
And we'll make lots of noise
And you'll get a bad headache
And throw things at us
And we'll dodge very well
And you'll try it again
And it won't do much good
Lovely lovely lovely random woman...

People (as well as medieval instruments) aren't supposed to have a built in fade in and out. However, the Minstrels are hardly normal people.

[lt-naraht.livejournal.com]

Naraht spins around at the first verse.

Well, she tries to spin around. The rapid movement is too much for her still-developing balance skills and she winds up falling on her butt with a loud THUD and winds up listening to the rest of the song from the floor.

"Ouch," she says ruefully, then looks up at the Minstrels with narrowed eyes.

"Be glad my fine motor control is terrible," she says. "Or else I would throw things at you."

[minstrel-show.livejournal.com]

The strum of indiscernable medieval string instrument most certainly wasn't a cackle.

No, never.

[lt-naraht.livejournal.com]

Naraht sighs and climbs to her feet.

"If you must provide a musical accompanyment, may I request something slightly more modern? Do you know any Klingon opera?"

[minstrel-show.livejournal.com]

A discordant note.

They look at her distastefully.

Robin, were he here, would be running. This, however, isn't an indication of much.

[lt-naraht.livejournal.com]

She sighs and goes about hunting for sick patrons.

"Well, there's no accounting for taste."