Post by Christine Daaé on Apr 17, 2013 20:17:13 GMT -5
((OPEN! I apologize to whomever takes this thread for the delay in time difference, but since it was being recycled I was trying to wait to ask about whether or not the person it was originally intended for was still interested in threading.
NOTE: This thread has been claimed by Roselin and is no longer open to people joining))
Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. Her hair was gold as the sun's rays and her soul as clear and blue as her eyes. She wheedled her mother, was kind to her doll, took great care of her frock and her little red shoes and her fiddle, but most of all loved, when she went to sleep, to hear the Angel of Music...
That was how the story had begun. It was Christine and Raoul's favorite story when they were little children, a story with her father used to tell quite often before he had died. She wished that he could be there now, to see that she and Raoul were to be married... It was six (or six years to her at least) that he had left this earth, promising her that he would send to her the Angel of Music to watch over her and to protect her.
Though not quite what she had expected, the Angel of Music had come to her, and had protected her, just as Daddy Daaé had promised her. Of course, she had always believed that her father would keep his promise to her, but sometimes, when she had been a bit younger, she found herself doubting him. Looking back upon it, she could not fathom why, for he had always been her closest and most trusted friend, even more so than Raoul. He would not lie to her...
In spirit of the date, the twenty-third of February, Christine had taken it upon herself to pay a sort of tribute to the old Swedish fiddler who had raised her and who had always kept such a treasured place in her heart even after he was deceased. She was dressed in a red frock and shoes, her golden hair pinned up atop her head, and with her she carried her fiddle. Her father had taught her how to play from the time she was a little girl, but she did not play much now. It tended to bring back bittersweet memories, and with them a few tears were often shed.
She had decided that the ballroom would be a good place for her to play, as it was generally empty and had a large (but not too large) space with fairly good acoustics. She planned on spending the day sitting in there and playing by herself, for her father whom had taught her to play and to sing, and whom had filled her childhood with so much joy and with so much hope when others might have trouble finding it. It was certain in her mind that her father would see her and would smile down from heaven. She only wished that she could see him as he could see her...
The girl sat down in one of the chairs off to the side and raised set the case down to get her violin. After removing the instrument from its case, she took it up into position and played a few notes, adjusting the pegs and whatnot to tune the thing, and then bowing again to see that it was the sound she had, in fact, wanted.
((Note: Original posted 9/13/12 for Emma Ravenhearst))
NOTE: This thread has been claimed by Roselin and is no longer open to people joining))
Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. Her hair was gold as the sun's rays and her soul as clear and blue as her eyes. She wheedled her mother, was kind to her doll, took great care of her frock and her little red shoes and her fiddle, but most of all loved, when she went to sleep, to hear the Angel of Music...
That was how the story had begun. It was Christine and Raoul's favorite story when they were little children, a story with her father used to tell quite often before he had died. She wished that he could be there now, to see that she and Raoul were to be married... It was six (or six years to her at least) that he had left this earth, promising her that he would send to her the Angel of Music to watch over her and to protect her.
Though not quite what she had expected, the Angel of Music had come to her, and had protected her, just as Daddy Daaé had promised her. Of course, she had always believed that her father would keep his promise to her, but sometimes, when she had been a bit younger, she found herself doubting him. Looking back upon it, she could not fathom why, for he had always been her closest and most trusted friend, even more so than Raoul. He would not lie to her...
In spirit of the date, the twenty-third of February, Christine had taken it upon herself to pay a sort of tribute to the old Swedish fiddler who had raised her and who had always kept such a treasured place in her heart even after he was deceased. She was dressed in a red frock and shoes, her golden hair pinned up atop her head, and with her she carried her fiddle. Her father had taught her how to play from the time she was a little girl, but she did not play much now. It tended to bring back bittersweet memories, and with them a few tears were often shed.
She had decided that the ballroom would be a good place for her to play, as it was generally empty and had a large (but not too large) space with fairly good acoustics. She planned on spending the day sitting in there and playing by herself, for her father whom had taught her to play and to sing, and whom had filled her childhood with so much joy and with so much hope when others might have trouble finding it. It was certain in her mind that her father would see her and would smile down from heaven. She only wished that she could see him as he could see her...
The girl sat down in one of the chairs off to the side and raised set the case down to get her violin. After removing the instrument from its case, she took it up into position and played a few notes, adjusting the pegs and whatnot to tune the thing, and then bowing again to see that it was the sound she had, in fact, wanted.
((Note: Original posted 9/13/12 for Emma Ravenhearst))
