Serendipity (or Calamity)

To a surprisingly likeable bottomless stomach of want,

To a surprisingly likeable bottomless stomach of want,

I pray that your friend finds swift recovery and strongly advise against his dismemberment. Odious and obnoxious though he may be, I fear you would miss him dearly. Your words are heavy and jagged with distress. For many, these emotions habitually manifest in anger. The snarling rage of hounds is oft a mask for pain or bewilderment. Fret not, I bid you. Your Vivek is a remarkable individual, by your account. His strength shall prevail. After all, he survived your sister and now commands his own trade guild.

Remarkable individual or not, I've no interest in a jealous stint of abduction and thus, must concur with your discretion regarding our correspondence. Twould be a blessing to leave this hovel but not as the hostage of some fearsome, smelly, city-destroying stanger. As such, I implore you uphold previous policies of confidentiality.

Tis, however, not my only motive. I admit our secrecy to be a thrilling prospect. How delightful—to have something entirely to myself—a miniature world sewn of inky curls and parchment dreams, scattered to the wind. As ere conveyed, at times, I feel that I am merely living in someone else's narrative—a funny little margin sketch in a life more inspiring. There are those who topple heads with a single word. There are those who topple empires with their final breath. I could douse myself in lighted oil, holler grandiose nonsense, and fling my body from the tavern roof. Yet, I would soon be forgotten. Perhaps some bosom-loving traveller might enjoy a laugh ere slipping into a drunken haze and my memory with him. This correspondence has given me voice and, I daresay, a sense of significance. If you are attempting to squash my comforting human delusion of self-worth, you might consider another strategy.

Condolences that your tale took a route of frightful, filthy, tedium. I remember tending to the herd at the height of the goat plague—a harrowing experience. Every day, I fed their frothing mouths and cleansed their festering rashes. Every day, another fell and did not rise. Their flesh was full of living rot—too vile for the market. The hills were strewn with corpses.

Eventually, the disease proved so infectious that my father began burning goats at the mere appearance of symptoms. Gods, how I wept. Twas a tender age, and I knew little of the world's ugliness. There was one animal for whom I held particular fondness—a sweet, soft doe with reddish patches. I leapt to hoist her from the flames ere father hauled me away. My arms bore blisters for days. Though it was a loathsome act, the burning likely saved what remained of the herd. Without those goats and the income they provided, we would have starved come winter.

I wonder if our leaders—the nobles and magistrates—view their people as my father viewed his livestock. Should plague descend upon the villages, would they see us bound and burned? They certainly allowed the trolls their fill of the land until the beasts drew too close to high stone gates and gilded carriages. Trolls are a nasty, vicious lot—not very bright but hulking and terrifically resilient. A burly neighbour of mine managed to sever a troll arm during the raids. The limb strangled him, nonetheless.

Vivek's 'unimpressive goons' evoke wariness within me as well. Yuan-ti and ettercaps are not to be trifled with. Even kobolds, full of tricks and pricking fangs, may overwhelm their foes with wit and numbers. Tis said that many species amongst your friend's sobbing menagerie relish the taste of human flesh, excepting the unhappy wood elves. I have heard frightful stories of bugbears half-roasting their victims before devouring them alive. To be eaten by another sentient being—one with whom I might have held conversation—seems so utterly dehumanising. Tis a fate that strips one of their dignity, rendering them, not a person, but a bleating goat for slaughter.

In your second correspondence to me, I recall a most unsettling line. Consume the flesh of my contemptible brother; that was the implied advice. At the time, I took those words in jest. Your comedy is black and gory, but I swiftly grew enamoured of the style. Yet, as I came to better know you, I perceived sincerity in those bloody little lines, once overlooked. I am still intrigued and disturbed, more so than ever. Alas, I ask you this, for ignorance I can no longer abide: have you partaken of my kind? In either case, I am loath to abandon you. These letters, lovely and bizarre, sustain my hope. To now part with you is a bitter prospect. As you say, decency be damned.

Though we are alike in some aspects, you have illustrated that the course I prescribe may be misguided, for the laws of your life differ greatly from my own. For my presumptuousness, I must apologise. I would ne'er seek to see you err, and my interest in your escapades is just that—an interest, not a means to scheme to your detriment. In fact, I find myself living vicariously through you. This is my sole amusement outside of practise. I want at least one of us to achieve happiness. Mayhaps I was hasty in pursuit of yours.

That you assumed my intentions were unsavoury is unsurprising, in retrospect. The world you know is so unspeakably cold and cruel that you baulk at sparing the life of your only living companion. In such jaded eyes, all are an enemy—even a friend. Everyone despises you and desires to steal from you. You despise everyone and desire to steal from them. If you take nothing else that I have written here to heart, take and keep these words: I do not despise you. I shall not steal from you. I desire to see you triumph o'er your obstacles, not to triumph against you. This, I dream, though I should ne'er taste the fruit of your victory. The fruit of your quill is sweet enough.

Argal, I should like to advise you again, though, perhaps, with more adequate context. Forgive my blunders, and I shall endeavour to your favour. You cannot afford the risk of polymorphing; that much is given. The ensemble must accept you as you are, or not at all. Tis not an impossible aim. Improbable, yes, but not impossible.

You are an incorrigible arsehole. Yet, you are also a compelling, intelligent, and uncommonly sensitive arsehole. I am charmed and fascinated between insults—ne'er bored of your flowering prose and twisted tales. No musician could deny your passion for the arts. If one can look past the 'persistent bluster and menace,' you are, in fact, quite likeable. I have been convinced to like you, and I am fond of very few.

Perhaps we might convince your neighbours as well, though tis far from guaranteed. What is your rapport, at present, with the townsfolk? Have you wronged them, specifically? Is your face abhorred for some heinous crime? Conversely, have you bestowed upon them any kindness, however small? Are your features hideous to their eyes? Have you conversed with them in your true form? So long as you ne'er mained nor murdered their kinfolk, opportunity may yet await. Most offences permit atonement in some manner. I cannot think that you would harm excellent musicians and am, thus, cautiously optimistic.

Assuming you have not committed atrocities against them, I shall devote my mind to stratagem that you might secure your ambition—that is, if you permit. Should my involvement spark irritation, I shall ne'er again make mention of the subject. My diplomatic skill is not to be sworn upon, for I myself am not well-loved as of late. Wherefore, I cannot say. Suspicion strikes that Madame Margaret's campaign against me has progressed. I do not much care for the villagers or their talk, but I do worry for business. There is no abundance of coin to be had and few hands from whom to collect. You were wise to warn me. I shall be keen henceforth.

In the meantime, practice—harsh and loving mistress—calls me home to hie to her side. I have studied the Pagarre Caprices and like them well. As unaccompanied repertoire is concerned, they are a bracing journey—a trial and pleasure to play. Yet, I find myself drawn inevitably back to the revered master of counterpoint—the father from whom so many have learned this language of composition—Joran Bosc.

There is something in his music—some invisible, intangible, ineffable divinity—that captivates me without peer. After considerable thought, I have selected a favourite amongst his works—amongst all works: the Chaconne from Partita No. 2. If I could play but one piece for the remainder of my days, twould be this. Though for solo violin, those resounding double stops, glittering arpeggios, and ringing drones weave invisible counterpoint. At times, each bow stroke is as a wound—exquisite ache so fiercely craved. Agony embraced with fervour, I beg the bowed blows continue yet implore them cease, lest I collapse or combust beneath their force. By this splendour, I dampen the lachrymal altar.

Alack, I wax poetic for the music of dead man. A copper for your thoughts? What composition moves your hard heart to this degree? All aside, I bid you and Vivek both good health and fair tidings. May one of us, at least, achieve some semblance of happiness.

From,

A musical flagellant, lashing herself into oblivion

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*Partita in D Minor, BWV 1004 (J.S. Bach)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qtyTaE7LvVs
Go to 13:50 if you just want to listen to the Chaconne