I want to write this gypsy dancer person, but she needs a purpose.
Name: Aysa (I -ee- shuh)
The music moved her. It was always the music. She could hear it in her head, even when no musicians played. The tap of fingers on drums. The deep base of the low horn throbbing in an undertone. The ching of her finger cymbals. The stacatto melody on the bouzouki. The pause, like an inhaled breath, before the full body of the song leapt into being and moved her limbs. She could see and feel the melody, the mood, and she moved to it.
Aysa stretched her left arm, extending it as far as she could reach. Her wrist snapped and turned her hand to face upwards. Ching. A step with her foot, then another. The bells on her hips and ankles kept time, too. Sweat glistened on her skin. A jewel sparkled at her belly button. Powdered glitter accentuated the curve of her breasts. Her hips moved. Aysa swayed and swung. Her black hair flew out around her, blending with the rich blue of her veils that undulated around her as she spun. Dark kohl lined her eyes. Red ocher stained her lips. Her teeth flashed white as she smiled with joy. The audience was not given a thought. They were just a part of her dance, a place to drag her scarf, to lean, to entice, and move away, like the waves lapped at the sands of the beach. She was water, air, and fire. Only the music, always the music, mattered.