Serendipity (or Calamity)

To her majesty of manure,

To her majesty of manure,

That you find me fearsome is no insult. In fact, had you not deemed my deeds and demeanour aptly dreadful, I would have been sorely disappointed. Though my presence alone oft suffices to instil horror and awe, I do strive. Your kind acknowledgement of my turpitude is appreciated.

That you take pleasure in my prose is also heartening. At times, I suffer fleeting misgivings, wondering if I am the only one who likes to hear me talk. Your compliments quell such unkind uncertainty. Common is not my native tongue and, while some of my line were blessed with innate linguistic knowledge, I was not among their number. Instead, intellect and diligence served to compensate. As a music history enthusiast, proficiency in the primary languages of composition are essential. Furthermore, the boon of polylingual aptitude cannot be overstated as it concerns conflict and conference. After all, how am I to intercept enemy correspondence or savour pleas for mercy if script and speech are indecipherable? Tis about as satisfying as terrorizing cattle—a paltry sport for babes and minor monsters.

Your village sounds entirely uninteresting and, its residents, equally vapid specimens of dung beetle—human, I presume. Halfling men are not so crude and chauvinistic. How did you manage to cultivate such refined interests given the local average? The words 'goatherd' and 'virtuoso' are seldom uttered in the same phrase. I imagine livestock compose a lacklustre audience, let alone ensemble. Truth be told, when I began studying Common, it ne'er occurred that those skills would see use in conversation with the peasantry. My encounters with such communities are usually brief and marked by one-sided amusement—my own, of course.

Given current circumstances, have you received recent violin instruction, or do you study independently? In either case, tis no cause for shame. In fact, be it the latter, I commend your resilience. The agony of parting from a fine maestro is a sorrow I know well. My mentor passed decades ago, and I mourn him still. Reanimation was a consideration—expensive but not impossible—yet I could not bring myself to disturb his tranquil deathed. He was content to let age have him—a sentiment I cannot comprehend but shall respect. Maestro Lyros lived long for a half-elf, leaving many admirable compositions for posterity. I doubt if this century will again witness such glorious counterpoint. Do you hold similar esteem for your master?

To address your final query, I play several instruments, including the violin, but my soul lies with the pipe organ. What euphoria, to command unmatched power and versatility—tempest flowing through a thousand singing pipes or uplifting a single shimmering line. An organ may speak with gossamer tenderness in one moment to unleash colossal bellows in the next. Its keys and stops and pedals demand all limbs engage the music with fullest zeal, and I gaily give body, heart, and mind that such sublimity might take flight. Tis truly the king of instruments.

I expect you disagree by virtue of violinist biases. Loyalty is only natural. Our instruments are, to us, sovereigns and subjects alike. Does your violin have a name? Every instrument in my possession is named, for each constitutes a voice—a musical identity to be discovered and cultivated. Though all are prized, my dearest treasure is the magnificent pipe organ built into the walls of my sanctum. I call him Siakepesk.

A keyboardist will play many instruments in her lifetime. As such, we are less likely to form attachments with any in particular. Siakepesk is an exception, for he is the construct of my genius and endeavour. He is a vast being of nigh infinite possibility, with five manuals, three hundred and forty stops, and four hundred and thirty-five ranks. I proclaim there to be no pipe organ in the realm exceeding his scale and uniquely divine timbre—those powerful reeds and silvery diapasons. Alas, the bulk of organists would find my instrument quite impossible to play. He was designed for a musician of considerable stature. Tis, perhaps, for the best. There are scarce few worthy of his majesty.

I would be delighted to know your violin in greater detail. For much of my lifetime, I have collected instruments, enthralled by their exquisite design and history. My tasteless sister deems this an inane pastime, excepting musical objects of outstanding monetary value—boorish demoness! She is blind to worth that cannot be measured in gold or blood—a creature with no personality beyond greed, pugnacity, and sadistic contempt.

You expressed apprehension regarding our relationship. My people are not so sentimental as yours. Our families are bound by pride and legacy. We are capable of dedication in parenting and rush to avenge fallen relatives, slain by outsiders. Nonetheless, we are equally likely to partake in said slaying for one reason or another. The mighty are revered. The weak are purged.

In youth, my sister tolerated my presence because I was useful and oft deferred to her whims. Now, she tolerates my existence because I remain uninvolved and inconveniently out of her murderous reach. Once, we were exceptionally close by the standards of our culture—inseparable and, in combat, boasting the clockwork manner of a densely woven fugue. I daresay she harboured a brutal, muted sort of affection for me.

Yet she was as much a tormentor as an ally. The flavour of my sister's cruelty is potent and unapologetic—a festering wound that knows not how to close, only to bleed and peutrity. She revelled in pointless, painful displays of dominance. The remaining member of our trio suffered yet more than I for his inferior lineage. Though his species is, indeed, less mighty than our own, I found her treatment of him somehow irksome. He had contributed significantly to our repeated victories. Tis pleasing to assert authority but insensible to punish excellence. In simmering discontent, he and I schemed and finally escaped her influence in the aftermath of a difficult battle. She was too weak to pursue us and exact vengeance. Were she not so deadly, even injured, I would have claimed her life then and there. Needless to say, though our siblings are alike in detestability, mine is apt to gleefully dismember yours rather than romance him.

How strange it is to write these things. There is something of shame in them, yet our anonymity assuages its burn. I see you not, know you not, yet feel secure in revealing my shortcomings and personal controversy—my rubbish, as you put it. Perhaps your confession aroused my own latent want of disclosure.

In this vein, I shall, again, offer a small parcel of wisdom and encouragement. Retain conviction regarding your brother. Hold firmly against those who would manipulate you in commerce. Bow not to your forebears should they oppress you. Had I not dared deny the familiar comfort of my sister's company, what length and severity of misery might I have endured? Blood relation aside, those who act as enemies are to be treated as such, and there is no foe so lethal as one who has known you.

Sincerely,

The queen of instruments, by way of marriage to the king

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*Prelude and Fugue in G minor, Op. 7 (Dupre)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V5aUwSxRuD4&feature=emb_logo