To the epitome of emotional constipation,

Great gods almighty; I have thrice read the line, and still it strikes as heaven's bolt. You have played Ludall Toveht's instruments. The anonymous murderess to whom I write has played Ludall Toveht's instruments. Yea, she has conquered dragons and travelled the world, yet this, somehow, is most impressive. Have you attempted his sonatas on them? The violin concerto? Is it ecstasy beyond words? I implore you describe it. Furthermore, how on Toril did you happen upon the legendary quartet? Were they stolen? Gond's fiery beard, did you steal them? I ache for want of answers; pray deliver me!

Alack, do pardon my excitement. By some spirit of indignity I was momentarily overcome. I had known of your precious collection, but could ne'er have foreseen this turn. Tis curious, for I dreamt of Toveht's work this past night—the Ketze Sonata, in fact. Twas effortless to play in sleep, not so in waking. A strange, sweet dream it was; I felt taller and my fingers thicker, though not undexterous. An elf with wild, windswept hair rose from the piano to embrace me.

I admit that Toveht's Opus 132 is unfamiliar, but the reverent verses you have dedicated are the perfect weight of the soul. What inspiring angel entered into your ear is welcome in mine. O, how these words stir reminiscence of better days. Your Lyros had a tender heart in his breast. I cannot think that he cared only for your aptitude. As you recall his kindness, I remember my own dear master—all the music we made and might have made together.

Once, we played the Bosc double violin concerto, and his wife, Myrthe, tried her hand at continuo. She was thoroughly awful, and it made me laugh such that I struck poor Demik with my bow—an ungodly performance, but one on which I fondly dwell. Now, I know not whether Demik lives or dies. Twas my hope that he would return to tell of those fine things awaiting amid the city sprawl. Perhaps he might have led me from this place. Perhaps he has forgotten me and each parcel of my livelihood left on his table.

That aside, tis cheering to hear of Vivek's recovery. It seems my faith in the pair of you was not unwarranted. Once more, your medicinal magics have prevailed. You have become a veritable healing goddess—an ascension to divinity ne'er asked for but joyously received. O mistress of bandages, shall I lay you burnt offerings for my scraped knee?

Given recent charity, tis ludicrous to shun the concept of friendship with its recipient. Is genuine, healthful affection so loathsome to your kind that you must become mental contortionists? This manic horror of weakness possesses you. Yet, is terror at the workings of one's own heart not weakness in itself? And what is denial but belief in one's own lies for a modicum of comfort? Such flimsy delusion fails to convince me that Vivek is not your friend. At the very least, you are his.

By my truth, I have ne'er known one so determined to inflict perpetual loneliness upon herself. Magical parchment? Selune's ivory tit, did you truly believe some peasant girl had enchanted you into liking her? Today, that same peasant girl could not persuade a goat from eating her walls. Still, twould take a stony skull thicker than mine to deny kinship with one I painstakingly nursed from the brink of death. Nonetheless, should it please you, I shall call him your 'mutually beneficial associate.'

I wish some associate would spare half your trouble on my behalf. In remembering Pevquen Azur and his mighty company, tis not merely the rapture of art and adventure that moves me; tis also admiration of their camaraderie. They lived together, fought together, perhaps even thought together. After our parents passed, there was a time—very briefly—of wondering if I might find that camaraderie in my brother. Twas folly, of course. He was bound by blood and habit, and, even then, proved treacherous. True friends may not, necessarily, be good people, but they are good to you when it matters most—or so I have been told.

My thanks for consistent advice regarding Emberceuse. Magical progress is nonexistent, but practice has been uncommonly kind. A certain tension has fled me—constriction of the body and mind which escaped notice til it was gone. My legato is connected; my spiccato, clean. My intonation is clear, even at the appearance of outrageous double stops. Fire and freedom are in my bow. There is yet much to be done, but I am in good form to do so. Since our exchange began, my passion has flowered and, with it, my art.

Wherefore must you be such a conundrum—full with blistering venom, yet also with ambrosia? Prudence would dictate my fearing you, but that voice has fallen mysteriously silent. At your last letter, any sober woman should fling down the quill with dismay. Mayhaps you have written in liquor. Tis, as you said, improper, but I must make peace with impropriety.

Yea, I have wandered, line by line, through this letter, seeking any path save the one I now traverse. It cannot go unacknowledged. Lo, you have partaken of humanity; this, I asked, though I knew it already to be true. Still, tis relief to see you write the frightful truth, for, had you not, I would have known you for a liar. I should rather have an honest maneater than one who soothes me with pretty falsehoods. Tis not that I much like the thought of either, but like you well enough to bear the former. May I be damned; your sincerity has won me.

Alas, I cannot comprehend your pleasure in the hunt. The death of even simple beings gives me pause. I hunt with Maron, when time and condition permit. He catches hare and squirrel—pheasant, if we are fortunate. Of them, I make meals and useful goods. There is satisfaction in this—as you said, the thrill of competition and the fulfilment of a task completed. Yet, these creatures have more beauty ere the spirit departs. That momentary thrill and little satisfaction are not sufficient to elicit craving.

Many years ago, I saw a noble hunting party tear through hill and vale in pursuit of a single fox. Foolishness, it seemed to me—a dozen horses, hounds, and men for one scrawny animal. The boar has fight to give his foe, and abundance to offer in death. Fox is the meat of the desperate. Her flesh is tough—barely edible, unless one soaks it in brine overnight. The pelt is fine indeed, but ravenous hounds oft ruin it. A trapper or bowman is better suited. Nay, tis sport that calls the lords from their lairs. I pity the fox—killed for cleverness and grace. She has no defence save swift paws and a sharp wit, yet these small blessings are reason enough to make sport of her plight. Had I fowl to guard, I might persecute her, but ne'er would I slay her for pride and pleasure. Tell me, do you pursue the fox?

That you once pursued Vivek is laughable—even more so that he accepted your alliance soon after. His funerary plans are fascinating. I cannot see wherefore dead paladins should have their swords tossed into lakes when living brethren could swing them for the cause—awful waste of steel. Obviously, he sees some merit in the practice.

Having learned how you and your ally would die, I shall write my own grim preference. Alas, I fear you may find it grossly saccharine. When my fate arrives, I should like for someone to sing me to sleep—preferably, someone whom I love. Unfortunately, I haven't the slightest inkling as to who that someone might be. My mother and father are gone—their relations in the ground or, otherwise, unknown. My brother has forsaken his role. I am likely to outlive my mentor. Unless some great misfortune befalls me, I shall certainly outlive Maron, and his voice is an affront to birdsong. In truth, I believe myself destined to die alone.

Tis of no importance; many die alone. Perhaps I shall sing myself to sleep. Forbid Maron still lives as that final night descends, his silent presence may comfort me. As of late, his wingbeats overhead provoke such glee, for I know whose voice he carries. Tis embarrassing how I read and read again each bit of parchment that you send. At times, I wonder what might have transpired had our introduction occurred in the flesh. I wonder at your audible voice—your form and how it fills space. The quill may be faceless, but it still has a face of sorts. By its mark, I have glimpsed the countenance of your thoughts.

Twould be a gift to hear such thoughts—that cherished voice—spoken, even sung. I am no skilled vocalist, but, with training, I might have been a lyric mezzo. I've a comfortable Bb, though it seldom sees use. The tavern shanties are all rather low in more ways than one. Recently, the folk have taken to this strophic swill called Watkin's Ale—a not so thinly veiled euphemism for seed. I rarely attend, and the unholy chorus shout more than sing in their drunken revelry. Yet I am oft glad to hear any music at all.

There is one song, however, which haunts that grimy, raucous room with an echo of beauty. I return there, hoping to hear it sung again. Weep, o mine eyes. Weep, o mine eyes and cease not. Alas, these springtides increase not. O when begin you to swell so high that I may drown me in you? The lyrics are so sombre as to seem absurd, yet the music stings and flows such with tears that I feel them, earnest. Bitter font, how beauteous your stream. Twould please me to sing these words, but I may produce only one in four lines required. What is your voice part? Somehow, I imagine you a contralto. Tis said that taller people have a deep sound for their long respiratory passageways.

Speaking of the inn and the tavern beneath, I walked this morn to deliver their paid portion of meat and cheese. At the threshold, I encountered one Madame Margaret. When confronted, she declined to consort with 'the whore of devils.' The toad-faced ronyon added that she would stone Maron should he again land near her garden. In conclusion, the woman is quite insane. I know not what devils she suspects me of fraternising with. Even if I were back against the brimstone with fiends, wherefore should Maron face punishment? I could no sooner pull a skirt o'er a roving mauler than make sense of her mutterings.

Still, such accusations are not without peril. A maiden, even poor and loveless, may glean sympathy from the village. A doxy is always the object of scorn, whether she lies with devils or men. No woman can afford this slander, let alone one with wares to sell. Though I dislike pleasantries and gossip, I must now venture forth into the social sphere. My reputation must be corrected. I shall linger in the square tomorrow amongst the mothers and widows. Tis their word which serves to clear or condemn.

At least I have no murders to my name. Your notoriety shall not be easy to assuage. Nonetheless, so long as the villagers realize that your victim plotted your demise, improvement is not entirely impossible. In fact, I know precisely where to begin. Assuming your townsfolk are the same covetous breed of humanity as mine, they are likely more upset by taxes than bloodshed. My suggestion may seem offensive to one so financially conservative as yourself, but might you consider not taxing them?

Ere you baulk and rebuke me, allow me to provide some anecdotal perspective. A local lord once claimed our village as his own. He swore to treat us fairly. At first, the people were amenable. We had long been plagued by vicious trolls and marauders, and thought the presence of fighting men might dissuade such attacks. The lord sent a tax collector to gather tribute, and we accepted him as a necessary inconvenience.

Yet, with time, the arrangement was viewed less favourably. Our lord increased the tax, and bandits still stalked the road on occasion. Soon, the lord's man found himself without a friend in all the land. At the start, twas mere coldness that he faced—a scowl at the door, a shove in the street. Yet, a month could not have passed ere piss rained from the windows of the inn and leaked from the ceiling as he slept. First eggs and vegetables, then stones struck his back. His carriage wheels were broken, and his white horses defiled with dye and dung.

Our modest folk—farmers and tradesmen—had developed an unprecedented bloodlust. At last, they descended upon the tax collector, armed with every instrument of pain they possessed. As he fled, the blacksmith branded his buttocks with an iron. The lord's soldiers who objected were beaten bloody by the mob. Thus, that scarred, shaken soul leapt upon his reeking orange and green steed, and disappeared into the wood. Had he not, they surely would have torn him limb from limb. His lord must have reconsidered any ties with our village at the mere sight of that sorry heap of flesh. Pillaging trolls do not evoke such vitriol. I daresay there has ne'er been one so reviled as the taxman.

I cannot speak for your rate, but the people surely harbour some resentment. To remove the tax would be an olive branch—an expression of mercy and understanding. Furthermore, are you certain the townsfolk are aware of your protection? Boons, unseen, garner no gratitude. Payment in exchange for defence is far less objectionable than payment in exchange for not obliterating your clients. The former is what a liege lord does. The latter is how criminals hold hostages for ransom.

We commonfolk are not so different from the wealthy in that we maintain two priorities; life and property. In wooing us, you must not jeopardise either. Allow the townsfolk to keep their property, and explicitly demonstrate how your power serves to protect rather than endanger their lives. Accomplish this, and your rapport may heal. Continue to cultivate this relationship, and it may eventually permit warmth enough for friendly conversation. If you should like to make amends and secure your ensemble, friendly conversation is a fair preliminary aim.

Twould be a marvellous opportunity for all. You have such immense knowledge and skill to give. The musicians know not what they lose in each moment you are away from them. Likewise, I want for you a people—the kinship of art and that beauty and bliss imparted thus. I want for you to win that intangible everything of which you so fondly wrote. Ere I die, you shall sing and play alongside those who share your passion's blaze. I am no bard embarking on noble quests. Yet, I find myself enlivened by your humble dream—my soul flung to the far corners of the world. On wing and ink and whisper, I send you hope, wherever you may be.

From,

A mutually beneficial associate

I'm leaving three recordings with you today. NSFW warning on the third one.

*Violin Sonata No. 9, Op. 47 in A major, "Kreutzer Sonata," Movement I. Adagio sostenuto - Presto (Beethoven)
watch?v=9RSYIN8MYVU

*Concerto for two violins in D minor BWV 1043 (Bach)
watch?v=ILKJcsET-NM

*Mother Watkin's Ale
watch?v=SznvtWsjRzg