Serendipity (or Calamity)

To a supposedly sovereign nation,

To a supposedly sovereign nation,

My father once advised that pride and shame are espoused. Invite one o'er the threshold and both shall enter into your heart. Indeed, you are exceptionally proud, but your lofty prose is a marital bed of contradiction. In it lay insidious shame. You claim that freedom is the ability to control your own destiny, unbeholden to the world at large. If that be the case, you are enchained by nature and law alike. On human terms, you are a wild, immoral being, yet there remains custom to which you are bound in adherence. In surveying previous letters, I was struck by the peculiarity of correspondence with two distinct personages. One, steeped in a tradition of unwavering ruthlessness—of pride and avarice and wrath in pursuit of prestige. The other, as you so elegantly expressed, belonging to a covenant of music. Either way, you are hardly a sovereign nation. Contrary to my initial impression, your duality has revealed a glimpse of hypocrisy.

Your species may revel in loosely governed loneliness but your spiritual kind—that is to say your fellow musicians—do not. Music is a social endeavour and we, artists in solitude, are plagued by despondency. Are you content to practise meandering streams of solo keyboard improvisation for the rest of your miserable life? Do not profess to me that you haven't need for society. The realm of music is your chosen society. Inquiring after your dreams, I was told, not of aspirations to godhood, but of earnest longing to play pipe organ for your local choir.

Perhaps I lack essential context, but my belief that your desire is obtainable persists. Yes, a bit of polymorphing gone awry would incite the loathing of your family, but is that so terrible? Your sister detests you already, and your mother is only concerned with children as an extension of her glorious legacy. So far as I can discern, you care not a flea for any living creature save Vivek The Verdant. Final estrangement from your brethren may well grant unprecedented liberty. Unbeholden to their expectations, you could pursue power and clarity without the crippling limitations of their collective superiority complex.

On the subject of relations, is Vivek aware of your polymorphing habit? You mentioned that his line are not so judgemental, and a shrewd mind would surely recognize the value of such magic. How is it that a supposed genius allowed himself to be ruled by your sister? An intellect of highest calibre would not succumb to the prolonged influence of an obvious tyrant if resistance were possible. Yet, from descriptions of your triad, it does not seem that Vivek was a prisoner in the literal sense, merely the object of repeated abuse. I cannot suppress my curiosity as to how this alliance formed at all, considering the attitudes prominent within your culture.

All else aside, I am glad of your reunion, though wary of the words 'collaborative destruction.' Hopefully, you will survive the impending onslaught of high philosophy and economic ramblings. Do you oft travel with a harpsichord? It seems an oddly bulky choice, unless the journey were especially short. I would fret upon the prospect of highwaymen, for no swift escape can be made so encumbered. Then again, one who has slain behir, dined with lamia, and laid waste to cities would be less concerned.

Additionally, a steady cart and fine pair of draft animals are essential to prevent jostling the instrument in transit. Strings are so infuriatingly sensitive, and I imagine the harpsichord is a veritable nightmare to tune. Four perpetually slipping pegs are sufficiently irksome, thank you kindly. Nonetheless, Maestro Demik occasionally accompanied me on harpsichord and, given further time and resources, I should like to learn. Keyboard proficiency is invaluable in the study of theory and composition.

My practice this day was deeply satisfying. Be it music or magic or both, the strains I wove were ecstatic meditation. Pagarre Caprice No. 4 is the work of a brilliant, drunken lunatic with no regard for the limitations of human ability. Then again, Nephrias Pagarre was a Tiefling, so perhaps human limitations did not occur to him. As I played, I cannot say that I felt entirely human either. Tis said that an instrument may become an extension of the body, yet I wonder if the opposite is not more accurate. I agonise o'er my standing with Emberceuse, yet I am, mayhaps, already a vessel of sorts.

Your latest letter moved me much. I have taught myself not to wallow in self-congratulation—ne'er to celebrate, and always to critique. I believed that this was wise. Yet, perhaps an excess of humility can be as destructive as an excess of pride. If I am condemned to play for an audience of goats, I shall play withal. Wherefore should a violin differentiate between princep and peasant? Musician is not a hereditary title. It is a denomination earned through passion, diligence, and artistry, thusly, claimed for oneself. Perhaps you find my species a paltry lot but thank you, nonetheless, for this reminder of my artistic worth.

I know not your investment in tavern gossip. Mine is minimal, but today's grim tidings merit an exception. There ensued a recent bout of excitement in the village when a traveller from the South arrived with word of a rampaging dragon. Reportedly, it destroyed the entire harbour and has since been sighted in flight Northwestward. Exactly which harbour endured the creature's rage is a matter of debate, for the traveller was not a very articulate fellow. The townsfolk are frightened and enthused in equal part, though the dragon remains far off and unlikely to land for the spoils of this measly settlement. I suspect they simply enjoy a good bout of hypothetical dread. Personally, I distrust the entire account for our esteemed informant was caught pissing in the constable's boot later that evening.

Have you e'er seen a dragon on your adventures? Manuscripts and fireside stories lead me to envision a creature of beauty. The Book of Hours of Bryphine Yanbay contains a gorgeous illustration of a resplendent gold locked in battle with a blazing red. Supposedly, they serve as a metaphor, depicting the internal battle between virtue and sin. Tis not an uncommon motif. Afterall, the gold is the lawful good paragon of metallic dragonkind, and the red is the chaotic evil epitome of chromatic wrath.

Since early youth, I have wondered why this pair, in particular, fought. I know the artist likely hadn't specific dragons in mind, but I relished inventing lives and motives for them. Perhaps the covetous red threatened to burn and plunder a kingdom for whom the gold was sanctified champion. Perhaps the gold slew the red dragon's forebears and occupied their ancestral lair. Is base nature, in itself, e'er sufficient reason to seek deadly violence? I doubt any sentient creature could be so simplistic. Perfect dualism is poetic but ignorant of interior complexity.

Tis an unwise desire, but I would be well pleased to witness the infamous dragon flying overhead, so long as they remained uninterested in the village. I am also unopposed to the dropping of an enormous dragon-shit on Madame Margaret's house. She has been oddly unkind as of late, and I cannot place her rationale. She spat at my heel today without prompting—a crude gesture of considerable contempt. I have ne'er oversold her goods nor have my goats touched her garden. We are obliged to speak once per month in that distant, barely cordial fashion common to affairs of trade. I cannot think of how I offended her.

Vicious old crones aside, the aforementioned dragon originated from the direction of the coast so perhaps it was a blue. Tis a tenuous guess, for I do not recall if it is oceans or deserts they favour. You may know better than I, considering the breadth of worldly knowledge accumulated during travel. Go forth and make merry with your dear friend, Vivek. Will you tell him of our correspondence? I shan't be grieved if you elect to abstain, for I haven't a soul with whom to share our tale save the goats. They should very much like to eat our letters but, alas, lack the taste for reading.

From,

The peasantry but a musician, nonetheless

----------

*Caprice No. 4 (Paganini)*
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H5qpfp-AjPQ