Name: Kanata Age: 21 Appearance: Name: Anabelle Age: 20 Appearance: A chill autumn breeze blew down the street, stirring damp leaves around her feet and sending her long black skirt fluttering, and Annabelle pulled her denim jacket tighter around her shoulders. Montreal was many things in the fall, but forgiving was not one of them. Cold seeped through the holes in her shoes as she stepped through the gutters, hurrying across the stone street to the pawn shop on the other side. Burning a hole in the cloth messenger bag at her side was a wad of cash; compensation from her friend Mari for the violin she'd broken. It had been an accident; Ana had loaned her the instrument and it had been riding shotgun in its case when Mari's car got twisted around two Hyundais and a telephone pole. For her part, Ana was mostly just glad her friend was all right - miraculously walking out of the wreck with only a cracked collarbone and dislocated shoulder - but couldn't deny that Mari funding her replacement took a lot of the stress off. Pushing the door open, a brass bell sounded softly above her, and she wiped her worn shoes on the mat, glancing around. The front of the store seemed to be mainly digital; bins of DVDs, VHS, CDs, and secondhand radios. Further back, she could see some guitars up on the wall. If they had violins, they'd be around there. She avoided the suspicious gaze of the shopkeeper as she headed to the back of the store; she probably didn't look like she had money for back-of-house merchandise; her jacket was very near a hole in one elbow, and nearly all of the hems were worn to the point of freying. The colour was mostly faded away from sun and over-laundering, as well. Her clothes were less damaged, but just as old and over-laundered, and after walking through the wind and patches of rain for twenty minutes, she could imagine what her hair looked like. Various instruments - mostly guitars - were hung up around the back area of the store. Ana let her eyes skim along the display until she found what she was after. The violin was a rich, red-tinged wood, and carved in an intricate, whirling design which evoked images of leaves and flowers. Captivated, she lifted it off the shelf. The design was different from her old instrument, which had been purchased new from the music store uptown - a birth-day present. The fingerboard was tilted rather more, and there were no marks on the neck. Upon closer inspection, it had a few nicks and dents along its body, but nothing too terrible, and none of them damaging enough to affect the sound. There was no bow, but her old one had managed to survive the wreck and would work, although the lighter wood wouldn't match. It meant she would have to test the sound at home, though. Turning it over, she looked for a price tag. There was a paper patch stuck on with scotch tape; it was just enough for the wad in her pocket to cover, assuming taxes didn't add too much. She had expected more, but judging by the changes from her old instrument, this was probably an old piece; it'd be less popular among most players. Ana just needed something that sounded good. She brought it up to the counter, thankful for the clerk's silence as she paid. He produced a case from under the counter, and she closed it carefully before returning to the streets. It had started to rain again, and by the time she returned to her rat's nest of a basement suite, drops were running off of her bedraggled hair and down her back. Shivering, she doffed her jacket and set her purchase down on the kitchen table, crossing the small space to put the kettle on. A quick shower and a brewing pot of Earl Grey later, she fished her bow out of the mess and carefully opened her new violin's case. The carvings shone with a strange lustre in the dim light of the light-bulb suspended from the ceiling. Tucking it under her chin, she pressed her fingers to the strings, and carefully drew her bow across them in a simple chord. It was in tune. Surprised, she tried another; it sounded perfect, and she transitioned into a familiar melody, creating cheerful, skipping notes on a twirling melody through the dreary flat. It was a tune her mother used to play often, and she closed her eyes, drifting away on the music . . .