Serendipity (or Calamity)

To a murderous church organist,

To a murderous church organist,

Your cynical worldview is rigid for one who disdains the laws of the realm. Must it always be a question of power or impotence? Can the boot not step o'er instead of upon the beetle? Can the commander amongst commoners not navigate simple foot traffic? Is one not elevated by their composure and consideration as opposed to senseless, tromping outrage?

Furthermore, though hierarchy is natural, I cannot presume any sentient species superior to another. Each is possessed of certain innate or learned tendencies, but those are not necessarily an indication of inherent worth as a kind—certainly not as an individual. As you have ere acknowledged, not all wealth may be measured in gold or blood. I should like to think this philosophy applicable to an evaluation of people.

A Gnome inevitably lacks the brute strength of an Orc, nor can the average Orc exercise Gnomish stealth. The Tabaxi cannot dive like the Locatah who, in turn, cannot perform acrobatic feats on dryland. Species may possess inferior aptitude for particular tasks, but that does not render them lesser creatures to be trampled underfoot. It does not make them less of a person. It also fails to account for exceptional individuals who deviate from the conventions of their kind or culture.

Speaking of which, I have ne'er heard one deem their mother 'ancient and terrible.' Perhaps I occasionally thought mummy dearest an unjust hag. She bade me select my own birch for punishment and stung more fiercely should I present a puny switch. In sincerity, she and papa were honest, gentle folk. I merely perceived injustice, for I, like all small children, was selfish and shortsighted. Was your mother as cruel as your sister? I find rotten parents oft produce rotten progeny; not that I find you rotten—merely arrogant and mildly diabolical.

Curiosity persists as to the specific evils your sibling thrust upon you. Nonetheless, there exists no obligation to answer, as always. Your sister probably believes in destiny because it provides validation. People with power credit their portion to divine right because it sounds more legitimate and poetic than 'the universe shat some good luck into my great grandfather's lap.' What of your father? Is he also master of all he surveys or would desire to?

I can scarcely imagine wielding power enough to seek vengeance against an entire city—hundreds, thousands, perhaps tens of thousands swept up in my warpath. What dire insult did they thrust upon you? A mere breach of dignity seems rather vague and trivial, considering the subsequent destruction. Pray thee not assume I intend on launching a criminal career, but I do wonder what it must be like to kill. I was not witness to my parent's demise, though I did discover their bodies ere first light—what was left of them, anyway.

My only tangible experience lies in butchering goats, but I suspect that's not quite the same. Such animals are not disagreeable company, but cannot exactly be called someone in the sense that you and I are. Soldiers and adventurers speak of death with hazy grandeur—a churning phantasmagoria of smiting, blood gushing forth like a hot, crimson geyser. 'And then I smote him' sounds so cavalier and impersonal, though perhaps detachment protects their sanity. Butchering is likely the most vexing part of my labour, though I hardly relish chasing strays down freezing, muddy hillsides either. I might form a different sort of bond with the herd if not for their regular sale and consumption. To love livestock as a friend is akin to prearranged tragedy.

I bid you seek Vivek the Verdant. Tis clear you miss him, politicking and all. The boon of 'mutual empathy,' as you say, is precious. Maron may be a messenger bird, but I prefer his company to the village, for he lacks their judgemental airs. He is my Vivek, though a markedly more dimwitted one. Seeing as we are amongst the myriad ephemeralities slipping swiftly to our deathbeds, twould be imprudent to dawdle when presented with a bond of substance.

Perhaps this the gist of the gale which buffets you—the unnamed, unassuaged craving. Fearsome and magnificent or not, we all require companions, mentors, even lovers to offer a modicum of mirth and tenderness. Have you e'er taken a lover? I am presently committed to Emberceuse, and those who would infringe must obtain her approval; not that many desire to infringe upon the affair of a goatherd and her violin.

Mum was enthusiastic about my prospects, but, since her passing I have dedicated scant thought to the subject. Our family status has since deteriorated, and the men here are a doltish, scruffy lot more interested in birthing hips than conversation. I do not grasp the appeal of their manly features. The violin is more than sufficient, boasting a prettier voice and less offensive odour.

I admit a flutter of delirious excitement at the possibility of uncovering Emberceuse's mysterious origins. Following my mentor's failure at the task, I resigned myself to eternal ignorance. With these letters, hope is revived: UslNt232A. I haven't the foggiest idea of their meaning, and shall entrust them to your self-proclaimed expertise. The instrument's fine craftsmanship was no question, but I had ne'er considered the likelihood of magical properties. Perhaps this seems pathetic to one so accomplished as yourself, but I am given to wondering if I might be a background character in the epic of another.

The world brims richly with magic, yet only the slightest dewdrops of splendour gather in the shade of this rubbish little village. All that remain are dried up tales of adventure spun at the inn by drunkards and the scarce haughty wanderer. Neither pay mind to anything without shapely thighs or an ample bosom. When that gallant band from my youth stopped to sup and retire, the beyond was, for an instant, opened, and a stream of beauty spilled forth from its beckoning lip. As the quartet departed, it was just as quickly sealed. The thought that I might possess the merest parcel of that magical beyond is almost too much to fathom, so I had best not dream extravagantly. Tis better to be pleasantly surprised than unexpectedly disappointed.

If you could be someone other than what you are, who would you be? I would deign to become a virtuosic bard, fearlessly traversing the great expanse in search of inspiration and audience. My music would touch the hearts and enkindle the minds of emperors and giants, aarakocra sages and starry-eyed children squatting on dusty cobblestones.

You claim to be a performer without a stage. What is preventing you from simply finding one? Surely you have resources to travel and skill to attract the masses. One with the means to build and house the world's most spectacular pipe organ must be capable of booking the average concert venue a dozen times o'er. Do you suffer stage fright? Demik confessed that, with fifty-four years of practice—he still succumbed to the occasional bout of shaky bow. Until this evening, I thought the stars immortal beacons. Imperfection, it seems, is the universal affliction.

From,

A lonely goatherd

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*Darshan Partita for solo violin, 3- Charukeshi (Esmail)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ArzRqKm_seU