Cecelia sat idly in the corner, her back leaning against the wall of a small shop built from sandy brick. The ginger-haired woman strummed gently at the strings of her ancient lute, the light wooden instrument burned and etched with intricate, beautiful carvings that showed its age in the weathering of their curves. Cecelia's eyes were closed, for a long while, as she thought.
Then, without warning or care, her foot began to tap. Her throat began a humming as if of its own accord, and her head began to bob. With a sudden flick of her hand, the lilting melody lurched up into cheery jaunt the whole square coming alive with the music, and the bard's face cracked into a crooked, cheery grin.
The woman remained in her seated position as the music drifted from her fingers. Those looking might notice that she held no cup, no case, no way to offer a donation. She simply played, to see who would dance, or who would join in.
