Red Osmanthus Cookie glances briefly over the railings of the bridge at Osmanthus Academy by her lonesome, eyes sweeping the crowd afar without truly seeing anyone. Her performances were breathtaking as always, she thinks, though the applause she longed for aren't just from strangers.

With a sharp intake of breath, she strikes a particularly intricate chord—a sudden, slightly too forceful twang that breaks the otherwise flawless rhythm for a split second.

"Hmph," she haffs under her breath, adjusting the position of her pipa for maybe an inch. "This melody needs more feeling. A little more drama, perhaps," she says mostly to herself, though the sound carries faintly down. She then sighs dramatically, leaning back slightly against the cool stone railing, her gaze settling on the distant eastern gate. "If only some Cookies would return sooner, maybe I could finally play something cheerful."