[center][i]"Guileless son, I'll shape your belief,
And you'll always know that your father's a thief.
And you won't understand, the cause of your grief,
But you'll always follow the voices beneath..."[/center][/i]

A tale as old as the kingdom, and Miranda knew it all too well. Having to seranade the streets with it everyday, one tended to grow very weary of hearing the story of Mordred and Morgan Le Faye; especially since it never changed. But with few gold coins in her pocket, the strawberry blond had no choice. 

So she sang, positioned in the village square as normal. Dressed in what small finery she could find, be it the corset, gown, and sheer gloves, she danced for her audiance, a respectable crowd, and sang the tale they had come to appreciate. Maybe it was the dark melody of her troop behind her, aiding in the tragic tale. Maybe it was her haunting vocals, or perhaps the slow and hypnotizing movements.

Either way, it came to it's slow finish. There was clapping, and coins dropped in the bag. Miranda took a bow, and collected the bag.

"That'd be two for each of us," she sighed, shoulders dropping. 

"it's Claude," the horn player elbowed the man behind the drum. "he's out of tune; drives them away he does."

"Hey!" Claude glared down at Carol. "You were the one skipping notes."