Serendipity (or Calamity)

To an astonishingly fortunate mayfly,

To an astonishingly fortunate mayfly,

I am sorely tempted to discard with anonymity and track Maron in pursuit of your violin. Alas, I am, likewise, loath to end our bracing correspondence prematurely. My impatience is not such that I cannot await your expiration via natural—or unnatural—causes ere claiming this prize. Do inform me if you expect to be murdered, for I am not opposed to avenging you in the regrettable event of homicide. I doubt you are capable of attracting a challenging foe. Nonetheless, vengeance is a thrilling sport. Your measly enemies shall not anticipate the likes of I and promptly soil themselves.

Thievery, murder, and vengeance aside, I bid you take pride in the legacy of your instrument. The ale-pustule who gambled it was a sorrier imbecile than two kobolds riding a shield down Mount Hotenow. Emberceuse was born in rimy Nightal of the year 232 WY by the hand of gifted luthier, Usilus. His creations were oft completed on auspicious dates—usually solstices, equinoxes, and other periods of notable syzygy. I suspect this violin is a product of the winter solstice.

Usilus was responsible for an impressive number of famous instruments. For instance, he crafted a gamba for the legendary bard, Shostel Ruv. On this viol, he played for twelve days and twelve nights to distract the Thistle King while his allies staged a coup. In my possession is another piece—a cello that, in competent hands, may summon rain aplenty to drench the dustiest desert. Of course, I cannot omit the esteemed master, Avesh Fi, and her gorgeous vielle. While untouched by magic, her resplendent music weaved a spellwork all its own, augmented by the luthier's fine craft.

Your instrument is endued with a peculiar quality known as Ansrivarrem—translated from Elvish to common as 'in memory.' Emberceuse may grant a musician access to knowledge of that which was played before and, perchance, even traces of the minds who previously owned her. Tis a gift enhanced by age as many virtuosi enrich the instrument's memory.

Assuming you are able to commune, your violin may offer additional perspective on the brevity and insignificance of most life alongside the precarious nature of power. After all, tis an antique object that has, no doubt, seen much. You asked wherefore the lofty commanders of this world do not acquiesce to the convenience of those beneath. Mayhaps a story shall suffice to explain. I once conversed with a lamia noble who undertook years of exploration in the Underdark. As we dined, she recounted the tale of a beholder, formerly exalted for his strength and influence.

Thrassk, as he was called, had finally triumphed o'er factions with whom he held lengthy enmity. His foes crippled and scattered, he returned to his comfortable lair to bask in hard won victory. When a teensy boggle wielding a golden fork appeared in the tunnels, Thrassk briefly considered destroying the pest. However, he concluded that it was too small and weak to be of consequence. The beholder was exhausted from decades of relentless scheming, and the beastie's minor antics were deemed harmless. Thrassk had conquered manticores, ulitharids, and duergar armies. What is boggle and his shiny fork to a tyrant such as this?

Unaware was he that the invader was an agent of his rivals, bitter in defeat. Every day, the boggle chipped steadily away at the foundations of the sprawling lair and was paid no heed. So precise was this process that the tunnels remained intact until a single destabilising act prompted the collapse of the entire system.

The beholder, prey to this unexpected deluge of destruction, found himself incapacitated. Gravely wounded, he lay at the mercy of the grinning boggle, armed with the golden fork. The intruder then seized his reward, one by one plucking and consuming the multitudinous eyes of his victim. The mighty Thrassk, once master of his domain and destiny, was left to die—blind and helpless—weeping blood from empty sockets.

All beholders of the Underdark know this story, or so the lamia said. The great remain so, not merely by virtue of exceptional power, but by prudent application of said power. A boggle is a frail, cowardly creature. Had Thrassk annihilated it with a death ray or but shooed it off with a flash of fangs, he might have enjoyed a long life. Awesome power is wasted if ne'er displayed, for only in this way may one glean true respect. Mercy may yield debt or goodwill, yet it also signifies weakness to those without a similarly softened edge. There is no sentiment, once known, so vividly engraved in memory as fear—no shield so dense or sabre salient. Fear: that is my chosen heraldry.