Work Text:
"Dandelion! Play The Flight of the She-Trolls!"
Ciri lay her sword on the floor of the Chameleon and grabbed a broom from the bar to cross it. Setting one arm on her waist and the other above her head, she awaited the first delicate notes to begin dancing, feet flying in the traditional elven style, the bard’s fingers first plodding, then trotting, then galloping across the doubled strings as Ciri’s feet perilously negotiated the space between sword and broom. The song came to a pounding crescendo with theatre patrons clapping in time, yelling even ruder versions of the lyrics and throwing flowers and coins at the blonde witcheress.
Finally the obscene tune came to an end with a drawn-out flutter and Ciri stepped out of the crossed "swords", taking a well-earned Rivian kriek and shouting "You next, Viscount de Lettenhove!" - for she was never, ever going to let that unexpected ancestry go unremarked.
Amazingly, the Viscount did something she had never seen in her life - he blushed, and expressed reluctance to take the stage. "I am a man of many talents," (that was more like it), "of song and poem and treatise, but even such a man as I would blanch at following such a performance."
"We’re here to have fun, Dandelion! Take a jar and dance! The Lady of Time and Space demands it!" The crowd roared its approval and the barmaid handed Dandelion a tall drink of something powerful. Ciri held out her hands and after hesitating only a half-second, the bard handed her his pride and joy.
(His lute, damn your eyes - sometimes an instrument is just an instrument!)
Ciri’s own musical talent was firmly limited, so she yelled for a trobairitz to strike up a sea shanty and encouraged the crowd to clap in time. The result was quite unexpected.
"What the fuck d'ye call that, Dandelion?" shouted Zoltan, thoroughly surrounded by supportive groans. "Ye look like nowt so much as a donkey trapped in a tiny wee hammock."
"In the words of the elven sages, Zoltan, go plough yourself," sniffed Dandelion, grabbing the trobairitz in his free hand and swirling her around in a careless approximation of a tarantella.