16th of Fall, 513AV
Opal had chosen the most remote landing of the plantation for her morning's activities. Shady and open enough to benefit from the slight breeze, it also overlooked the fields, the slaves, and the generally less glamorous areas of the plantation. Which meant that she was unlikely to be interrupted while she worked. She spared a moment to gaze out over her family's plantations. The floating gardens were out of her line of sight, but there were groves of cacao trees nearby and a handful of slaves scurried to and fro, tending them.
Enough! Make music, she told herself sternly.
She bent her head over her lute, fingers lightly flying across the strings in a warm-up melody. Without a pause, the tune turned joyful, lilting over the plantation, melody accelerating towards a high and quavering end note. Opal grinned. The song was one of her favorites, and always got her fingers loosened up. It was the perfect preface to the more serious finger work she'd come to practice.
All intense focus now, Opal readjusted her lute in preparation for the unfamiliar hand positions she had in mind. A casual observer would have taken her to be the very image of a devoted musician; her brow furrowed in concentration and small, even teeth clamped onto her lower lip. She presented the image, perhaps, but the ears were left wanting. Notes jumped forth, awkward and deliberately slow, as Opal attempted to coordinate her fingers in the foreign positions. The hesitant notes were not made sweeter for the listeners' wait. Sour and twanging, they echoed through the air, accompanied not by sweetly sung words, but by words best suited to a sailor's mouth.
Or a svefra's.
Plink! "Petch it! This doesn't work. How could this work?" Twang! "What petching masochist developed this method?!"
Opal glared at her lute. It wasn't the instruments' fault, of course; it was perfectly lovely. The belly was stained a deep honey color, sanded smooth and polished to a high and gleaming shine. The instrument's 17 ribs sat in her lap; comfortable, lightweight and with a lustrous shine of their own. Gator-gut strings climbed up the neck, straight and taut... And mocking her.
A huff and an audible sigh left her frustrated lips.
The freeborn who had visited her shop recently had mentioned the new plucking technique, where the thumb of the hand was positioned outward, toward the neck, rather than toward the musician's body. "Thumb out", it was called. The strings were plucked, then, as usual. It had sounded so much simpler when the man explained it. But it was proving more of a challenge than she had the patience for.
Enough! Make music, she told herself sternly.
She bent her head over her lute, fingers lightly flying across the strings in a warm-up melody. Without a pause, the tune turned joyful, lilting over the plantation, melody accelerating towards a high and quavering end note. Opal grinned. The song was one of her favorites, and always got her fingers loosened up. It was the perfect preface to the more serious finger work she'd come to practice.
All intense focus now, Opal readjusted her lute in preparation for the unfamiliar hand positions she had in mind. A casual observer would have taken her to be the very image of a devoted musician; her brow furrowed in concentration and small, even teeth clamped onto her lower lip. She presented the image, perhaps, but the ears were left wanting. Notes jumped forth, awkward and deliberately slow, as Opal attempted to coordinate her fingers in the foreign positions. The hesitant notes were not made sweeter for the listeners' wait. Sour and twanging, they echoed through the air, accompanied not by sweetly sung words, but by words best suited to a sailor's mouth.
Or a svefra's.
Plink! "Petch it! This doesn't work. How could this work?" Twang! "What petching masochist developed this method?!"
Opal glared at her lute. It wasn't the instruments' fault, of course; it was perfectly lovely. The belly was stained a deep honey color, sanded smooth and polished to a high and gleaming shine. The instrument's 17 ribs sat in her lap; comfortable, lightweight and with a lustrous shine of their own. Gator-gut strings climbed up the neck, straight and taut... And mocking her.
A huff and an audible sigh left her frustrated lips.
The freeborn who had visited her shop recently had mentioned the new plucking technique, where the thumb of the hand was positioned outward, toward the neck, rather than toward the musician's body. "Thumb out", it was called. The strings were plucked, then, as usual. It had sounded so much simpler when the man explained it. But it was proving more of a challenge than she had the patience for.