The 5th Divvus in the
Second Moon of Summer
Their kumpanias had met with another and that evening they had camped together, circling the vardos close and going about making their campfires with an uplifting gusto that set a bounce in the young girl's feet as she moved about the camp, arms curled around a pile of kindling wood, hair free and swinging about her slight shoulders. She knew little of the Air'riela in the other kumpania, only that they were primarily Kemenlo, with a Glas and Lamisa tossed in amidst them. They were lively and friendly, but this was not at all surprising, and already the two kumpanias were preparing a great meal and tuning their instruments for an evening of dancing and singing.
"Tana, carrying firewood? Get your bari lavuta! You ka kel torarti!" It was her father, tall and sleek, hair kept back in a queue, white teeth bared in a smile.
"Misto, put the wood by the yog first, avrah?" He spun about on his heel, leaving her staring after him for a moment, a frown settled on her mouth. It was not that she did not understand--she did not lack a mind, after all--but that she had grown, quite suddenly, nervous with the prospect of performing in front of everyone.
You are an Air'riela, this should be no trouble! And yet Gitana did not have confidence in her skills as a musician. No matter...she would get better, that was all.
She hurried the wood over to the fire, dropping them in the gathering pile settled there. She was about to turn and run back to the vardo to fetch her viola when movement caught her eye. A woman stood off to the side of the encampment, dark-haired and olive-skinned, back slightly angled towards Gitana. In her hand was a long length of red, orange, and blue cloth, wool perhaps. At its ends gleamed metal bits, the fading suns-light causing them to glitter and glow. Her movements were fluid, but concise and the scarf snapped around the woman, smacking a rock on the ground and sending it skittering off into the woods in front of her.
The woman paused, looked up and caught Gitana watching. Her grin was friendly, open, and she waved briefly at the young gypsy girl. The two stood there, looking at one another, and Gitana willed herself to take a step towards her, but a man was there, talking and laughing, head inclined towards her with a gesture as if to escort her towards a fire that was flaring into life.
Gitana hesitated, hung back, then turned and made her way back to the vardo to fetch her bari lavuta, but her mind was on the swirl of the cloth, the dance that accompanied the weapon that the woman had wielded. The talvia. Her fingers briefly touched the length of cloth wrapped around her own waist, the barbs secured against them. She had been given one a few moons past, but as yet she'd not yet learned to use it. Perhaps...perhaps...