Serendipity (or Calamity)

To the most violently inclined person I know,

To the most violently inclined person I know,

Let it not be said that you are lacking in wit, though I suspect your vein of comedy would fail to impress my community. That you find detachable heads so amusing is fortunate, for the townsfolk might feel compelled to behead you for depravity. Then again, if you managed to slay a behir, a collection of farmers armed with hoes and fence posts may not inspire terror.

Perhaps the grandest occasion to occur in my dingy village was the visitation of four acclaimed adventurers—a barbarian, a druid, a sorcerer, and a violinist bard. This man—Pevquen Azur—was my first hero. I was only a lass then—not ten years old—but I kept by their side, utterly rapt, throughout the night. As we fed and watered the party, this god of music spun songs of liquid silver and tales that might have sprung from ancient epics. Your prose reminds me of him. There is artistry in your correspondence—as if language itself were worthy of respect and life itself, worthy of art.

The people with whom I dwell sort grain, shovel dung, peddle their wares, and speak no beauty. Perhaps mundane decades of the same routine have numbed their senses and tongues. A farmer is uninclined to paint landscapes whilst he hacks at them with a plough. Likewise, a smith will not hammer the steel of war when the tin of cutlery is in demand. You are another sort of being—one who might have worn the mantle of villainy in Pevquen's recounted adventures.

I say this not with intent to offend. Your perspective is deliciously liberating and honest—albeit alarming—in a world fraught with self-righteous hypocrisy. I would give most anything to live so freely—to leave this stagnant, manure-scented hovel and commit to my calling without fear of starvation. As it stands, I am poor in resources and rich in responsibility.

You inquired as to my reason for remaining here and, though it is a dull and dismal affair, I shall humour your request. My parents left their modest ancestral lands and livestock to my brother and I. For many years, we were successful enough that I enjoyed violin lessons in the neighbouring village and my brother could liberally imbibe. Alas, fickle fortune sought to pick its teeth with splintered happiness. Between the goat plague and the most recent troll raids, most of our wealth has gone. I was forced to sell pasture and my brother's selfish impulsivity has done us no favours. My supposed feminine charms, rather than endear me to the public, have hindered business. In the absence of my father, some men seek to haggle or intimidate me from the fairest price.

Hypothetically, I could part with the lot of this rubbish—the house, the goats, the land—and make my way to the city as a musician. Yet there is no guarantee of my prospects there. I know nothing of urban life, and have heard of refugees and hopefuls met only with poverty and grief. Yes, my farm and my future are rubbish. Still, this rubbish is almost stable, and almost is the best this world may have to offer. At times, I wish that I were brave or foolish enough to discard this life for a glimpse of greater dreams.

I wonder if my brother will come crawling for pity after city life has stripped him of funds. We shall see how he fares. If that miscreant, of all men, finds fortune, there may yet be hope for every cockroach scuttling hence. Our parents would have preferred reconciliation, but I concede your criticism rings true. I would deny him forgiveness. When he stole from this house and turned his back on this family, he forsook his right to both.

Nonetheless, I doubt myself capable of cutting his throat, though I crave some modicum of justice. Would you truly murder your sister and make a trophy of her corpse? What wickedness has she enacted to elicit such malice? You needn't relay specifics, be it a highly personal matter. Perhaps she and my brother are suited to one another. The poor aboleth shall be heartbroken. Additionally, I thank you for the advice, though I am afraid I cannot make use of it for fear of the noose. Besides, the meat would taste of ale and piss.

As I reflect upon previous correspondence, I realise that I have yet to learn of your particular musical specialty. You are obviously familiar with strings. I should very much like to hear the low and slow and lovely voice of your octobass. However, I suspect it is not your only instrument; tis too esoteric for a proper career. Are you, perchance, one of my kind—that is to say, a violinist?

From

Your considerably more modest advisee

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*Violin Concerto in D Major, Op. 35, allegro vivacissimo (Tchaikovsky) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gMG_MR-ihis