The man inclined his head with further explanation. A report already readily composed to the Princess' mother of how well the match was going- how enamoured the Prince with his bride already.
"When the song ends, it is customary to go to the bride and raise her back up and embrace - to show ones appreciation for the skillful dancer."
And with it the translator stepped back with another bow, his hand lifting to invite all back towards the display. The song rapidly reaching its crescendo, the drum faster, the words rising and falling as Gilia herself was lifted briefly up to be carried and then placed in the center of the cleared space. Directly before him as she readied herself for the last part. The other women fell back, encouraging the start of a clap - and Gilia grabbed a handful of her skirt, lifting it up to free her movement as she moved up onto one leg, and then onto her toes as she fixed her eyes on him wholly with a steadying inhale-exhale.
For him, even in a crowded room, this was for him. She stood before him now as his.
This, her skill, this her practise of years. But with a kick she pushed off, her hands remaining on her hips, and swung her leg hard to spin her body, before her head snapped to follow to keep her from becoming dizzy. But not the once, using her arc leg as momentum she pulled herself with a long kick to curl in and gain speed, and as the clapping began to catch and speed with the music, so did she, faster and faster. Spinning again and again and again, around and around, the snap of her head back to face him making her long braid with its golden ribbons, swing in a fluttering arc out from her. Around, around, around in the sheer show of strength, grace and control. Her bare feet and simple garb obvious - both to show the power of her long legs that flashed in each turn, but that it have her movements freedom. With the speed and force of the movement, the flowers and petals less secure came loose, flutter about her as they mixed with the ribbons and descend back to the earth. A wild, potent display of her best- to match her new husbands reputation and drive.
The last note at last fell, and muscles burning, her body aching, she fell to the last pose of the dance, down to one knee, her arms lifted up - her chest rising and falling with deep lungfuls of air. Exhausted and burning. The sweat on her skin sticking stray curls to her brow and neck.
The applause comes as relief, blurring in between each inhalation, but what she waits for - is given gesture by the translator with a sweep of his hand.
If her husband finds it suitable, finds the display worthy of him, he is now to embrace her.
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"When the song ends, it is customary to go to the bride and raise her back up and embrace - to show ones appreciation for the skillful dancer."
And with it the translator stepped back with another bow, his hand lifting to invite all back towards the display. The song rapidly reaching its crescendo, the drum faster, the words rising and falling as Gilia herself was lifted briefly up to be carried and then placed in the center of the cleared space. Directly before him as she readied herself for the last part. The other women fell back, encouraging the start of a clap - and Gilia grabbed a handful of her skirt, lifting it up to free her movement as she moved up onto one leg, and then onto her toes as she fixed her eyes on him wholly with a steadying inhale-exhale.
For him, even in a crowded room, this was for him. She stood before him now as his.
This, her skill, this her practise of years. But with a kick she pushed off, her hands remaining on her hips, and swung her leg hard to spin her body, before her head snapped to follow to keep her from becoming dizzy. But not the once, using her arc leg as momentum she pulled herself with a long kick to curl in and gain speed, and as the clapping began to catch and speed with the music, so did she, faster and faster. Spinning again and again and again, around and around, the snap of her head back to face him making her long braid with its golden ribbons, swing in a fluttering arc out from her. Around, around, around in the sheer show of strength, grace and control. Her bare feet and simple garb obvious - both to show the power of her long legs that flashed in each turn, but that it have her movements freedom. With the speed and force of the movement, the flowers and petals less secure came loose, flutter about her as they mixed with the ribbons and descend back to the earth. A wild, potent display of her best- to match her new husbands reputation and drive.
The last note at last fell, and muscles burning, her body aching, she fell to the last pose of the dance, down to one knee, her arms lifted up - her chest rising and falling with deep lungfuls of air. Exhausted and burning. The sweat on her skin sticking stray curls to her brow and neck.
The applause comes as relief, blurring in between each inhalation, but what she waits for - is given gesture by the translator with a sweep of his hand.
If her husband finds it suitable, finds the display worthy of him, he is now to embrace her.