benthic_university | Recent Entries

Arriving at class this week was a matter of simply maintaining course. Several new walls appeared to have been built between the university entrance and their usual door, but at each turn, there was little to do but continue through them. Before reaching where the staircase usually was, a familiar janitor had set up a cleaning area. As each student passed, Jonathan scowled or nodded, scaring off those with no business being there, and waving along the Correspondence students as soon as the coat was clear.

The classroom was much the same as usual. However, the cabinet in back had finally been unlocked, and the leftover notebooks and vials of violant ink were stacked up for students to help themselves to. The benches had been pushed back to make room for the biggest new addition: a large stone disc, ten feet in diameter. It was covered in wax tablets, and after what must’ve been hours of careful work, The Academic finished inscribing them with correspondence.

They stood up, wiping the sweat from their brow, doing their best to keep their bandages clean. Above the tablets, a heat haze shimmered through the air. “You’re welcome to have a look, but don’t get too close. This will force the papers placed atop to burn at a relatively even rate, and ought to contain any nasty, unexpected law effects.

The Academic received papers from each student who had chosen to do so. After checking each one, they tossed them atop the wax tablets. Green flames shot up from above them.

The Academic’s eye narrowed. “Cheeky, ground-bound so and so-“ they couldn’t help themself, and explained: “That chemical reaction comes from a Scintillack pigment…that’s a sign it’s been stamped with orders to go straight to the top. Even for Masters’ business, that’s rare.” The Academic sat back. Still tense, they warily eyed the door. “It should be over soon. They’ll need at least five minutes to burn through, but then you lot will be home free.” They let out a breath, unconvincingly attempting to calm down. They reached for the last of the papers, leaning forward to place it atop the others.

The door to the room creaked open, and The Academic craned their head. “Hm? One of our delinquent classmates seeing fit to rejoin us at the final hour?”

( Read more... )

theexdisgracedacademic

Tap, tap, tap.

The Academic busied themself with the chalkboard. Notes were no longer helpful nor necessary, and the time for them was past. But still, they filled the board with more roots or grammar notes. How to lower or exacerbate spark points in a given sigil. Things having to do with opening locks or entryways. Words to keep things hidden. Words to keep missives secure and tucked away on a messenger's person. When the board would begin to smoulder, they'd erase the latest sigil, and move onto the next board.

The bell rang in the nearby clock tower, and The Academic ran out of excuses. They turned toward the class.

( Read more... )

theexdisgracedacademic

This week, the classroom door was missing entirely. Luckily, three Correspondence symbols had been carved above the wall next to the usual location of the opening, creating a shimmering passageway.

The Academic was at their podium, looking terribly pleased with themself. “Ah! Welcome!” They greeted the last student to enter the room, “It is now time to begin your final projects. I’ll be meeting with you each one-on-one in order to assist you in determining-“

A garbled scream came from the outside hallway, and an ashen-looking figure stepped in, covered from head to toe in white soot.

The Beleaguered Dean stomped in. The ash fell from him like snow, and clenched within his hand was a cream-colored note.

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theexdisgracedacademic

Though bearing several fresh nail-holes, the regular door was once again unblocked. Opening it returned the students to a familiar room, and a familiar face.

The Academic placed a jar into their bag. Glass clattered within as it joined several others. “Welcome back to our usual classroom. I hope you weren't accosted by any more rogue laws on the way. Our dearest Dean wasn't quite so lucky this week. At least, I think we have a Dean? We ought to, right? That makes sense for a classroom?" They waved airily, and whether it was due to lack of memory, or because The Academic sincerely did not care, they remained as unconcerned as a picnicker in Jekyll Gardens. “And as such, I found no further barriers to entry!”

A watercolor figure holds a jar

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theexdisgracedacademic

Any students arriving to the classroom expecting shenanigans would be proven completely correct. This week, the door was a veritable barricade of wooden boards and assembled trash. Affixed to it were ten notes in at least eleven different languages. Notices from The Beleaguered Dean. Each stated that this course had been officially canceled, and that the students were not at all to return to this room under pain of expulsion.

And, of course, no refunds.

Underneath, there was a patch of frost. As one looked at the note, and not at the frost, it became clear: there was no class this week. It wasn’t allowed. If there was no class, then there was no sense in staying here to study. You’d have to leave.

And where else would one very much not be allowed to study the Correspondence?

One by one, each student figured out this new location puzzle, making their way to the streets surrounding The Bazaar.

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theexdisgracedacademic

There was no sigil on the door this week, but instead a wooden sign, nailed to the door, lettered in bold English copperplate:

COURSE CANCELLED.
(No refunds.)

Next to it, The Academic was on a footstool, hammer in hand, praying nails out.

They flashed a smile of encouragement at each student as they passed. “Pay it no mind, and get settled in. Be with you shortly.”

The last student had scarcely arrived when The Academic rushed into the room, slamming the door and locking it closed behind them. They tossed the purloined sign underneath the lectern, pulled down the second blackboard at the front of the room, and began to write.

“Quick question! Why would an administration which has encouraged the formal study of this language so suddenly reverse course? Any ideas?”

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theexdisgracedacademic

Though still moderately charred, the classroom door this week bore no suspicious marks. Students could be forgiven for muttering to themselves as they entered the class, but thankfully, all letters and sounds were free to speak.

The Ex-Disgraced Academic was at the lectern, having completed preparing several diagrams on the blackboards behind them.

“Let’s begin a crucial part of crafting proper Correspondence symbols: layering. You may have noticed two weeks ago, the way that the simple greeting was composed of the radicals for the pronoun “You,” as well as the verb “to like.” It does in fact translate as the base reassurance “you are liked.” Not a bad way to greet someone. It is, however, very formal. You see how the two radicals don’t touch? In the improper context, it could possibly be read as ‘The idea of “you” and “being liked” don’t belong within five-thousand light-years of each other.’ Hm. Not half as nice. A more casual way would look like this…” and here, they crossed the tip of To Like through the tail of You, “…there. A gentle light approaches. The meaning of this symbol will change, as the two bisect each other more closely.” The Academic wrote one across the other. “Beloved.” They raised an eyebrow. “No doubt several of you have your hearts aflutter, ready to stamp this on your next note to your latest beau. But might I offer a moment of pause before you attempt it on paper…”

( Read more... )

theexdisgracedacademic

This week’s trouble didn’t begin until after entering the classroom. But even as students approached the domed room, a sudden and striking sight at the precipice inspired the requisite amount of natural foreboding.

A blazing sigil upon your usual classroom door. To look upon it was to know that things was wrong now. But who could say what? Who could put a digit on a crisis? Not you. But a factor in your vicinity was offputtingly odd.

Your classroom had a normal look about it. But why such hush from surrounding pupils? You could still talk aloud, right? But not without difficulty. Your instructor stood avant, gripping podium with both claws.

“You saw our door?” Angry words through tight lips and flashing fangs. “A Law is now functioning in our classroom.”

( Read more... )

theexdisgracedacademic

As the students filed in, The Academic arrived, wheeling a book cart. On one side, stacked high, were a number of small boxes. The purveyor’s whole name wasn’t legible, but from the classroom seats, the words “-Educational Picture Postcards and Assorted Souvenir Stationery” were boldly visible.” The other side of the cart had still more boxes, and something bottled and unforgettable gleamed inside. The Academic quickly folded those boxes closed, walked to a far side of the room, and closed them into a filing cabinet, before securing it with a rather nasty-looking correspondence lock.

“You’ll get that when you’re good and ready,” The Academic drawled, returning to the cart and lifting another box, “but the world’s finest pigments mean nothing at all without the proper…” and here they dropped the box thudding on the nearest bench: “paper!”

From the trim, tidy packaging, they produced a series of twee, doily-covered notebooks. Their pupil contracted at the garish sight, lips drawing back into a hiss. Suspiciously, they thumbed through the contents, relief diluting their disgust.

“Hm. Well. The paper is of the requested quality. That’s enough, I suppose.” The Academic passed a notebook to the nearest student, and gestured for that student to pass it down, in turn. Soon enough, each student was in possession of a notebook.

“Wretched and garish as they are, each of these are filled with fifty sheets of F.F. Gebrant’s Flame-Resilient Paper. These are professional-quality materials, and can safely accommodate three correspondence symbols at a time, as well as any English notes you might take alongside the symbols. The covers may be too precious by half, but you oughtn’t be. I can avail myself of a practically bottomless source, so use them up and ask for more as you require.”

“Let’s break them in with some fairly standard notes in English, shall we?” Chalk hit board, and the lecture began. "I want you to start thinking about what The Correspondence can do for you. Let us start with the two major skill sets: Crimson Engineer, and the Epistolant."
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theexdisgracedacademic

This week, The Academic was on time for their own class. They’d cleared the chalkboards, refilling them with an extensive list of symbols. Though each clearly corresponded to The Correspondence, not one was scarcely more complex than the radicals they’d learned last week.

“While technically correct, you will almost never see any of these symbols on a plaque or temple wall. We’re still one step away from proper symbols." The Academic stepped away from the display, inviting the eyes of the students to begin to roam over the writing." But put your goggles on now, and look! You can see it now, can’t you?”

a white-haired figure gestures

( Looking more closely... )

theexdisgracedacademic

When the students arrived to their domed classroom, there was a broad-shouldered clay man standing before them. A pair of goggles were awkwardly affixed to her face. The hour to begin arrived, but no other tutor came with it.

The Clay Substitute laid her hands upon the podium. "PLEASE. OPEN YOUR TEXTBOOKS TO PAGE-"

Much the same as last week, there was a hubbub in the hall outside. The door slammed open, and one figure marched another to the front of the class. The Beleaguered Dean, swathed in a coat of thick tweed and a thicker coat of nervous sweat, was all but pushing The Ex-Disgraced Academic back into their pace behind the podium.

The Academic wasn't missing a beat in the argument: "-can't at all see what the issue is, so long as they learn the material-"

"You cannot offload your duties to an Underclay aspirant!" The Dean's fury is only matched by the fearful tension in his voice, "And an unfinished one at that! How did you get it up here-"

The Academic's eye widened in almost-honorable affront. "You can't prove that this perfectly capable worker is unfinished, can you?"

"No, but I can certainly prove that it's not on the faculty list." The Dean wiped his brow. "Get on with it, man!"

The Clay Substitute barely moved, but the grinding of her turning head rumbled through the floor. "I WAS TOLD THAT I WOULD BE PAID IN FULL, REGARDLESS OF HOW LONG CLASS WENT?"

Coin was exchanged, and, the Dean ushered The Clay Substitute out of the room. The Academic hissed through their teeth, clearly ready to vent their terrible mood at the first faces to cross theirs.

They turned to look at the class. And smiled a terrible smile. "Good morning."

( Targets acquired. )

theexdisgracedacademic

It took a while to find the classroom. The halls of Benthic were in turns stately and wild, and to catch snippets of conversation is to risk getting drawn into conversation (risky), or someone else's research project (perilous in the extreme). The little slip of paper with the classroom listing was even worse. The number didn't relate to any floor or door, and those that managed to get their nerves up enough to ask for help were treated to scornful chuckles.

"I knew that class was one big prank," chortled a passing member of the Stoats' Club, "even ol' Percy Winship-Widgon wouldn't fall for it, and he's only got half a lobe left to spare!"

As the starting hour for the class drew closer, and whispering doubts threatened to increase in volume, something important clicked into place. The classroom number might not exist on the walls of the building. But it did correspond to the table of contents in one of the many volumes of required reading. And that pointed to a section that referenced a paper that was also in the course materials, a seemingly unrelated architectural discussion of Benthic's construction…

Ah. The dome at the top of the building. Most students hadn't known that there was a room there. Had there ever been a room there?

Regardless. Members of the class made their way higher and deeper into the center of the great structure, and finally came upon a door, labeled with a lead plaque, and the numbers for the much-sought classroom. To squint at it, one would notice the numbers going funny for a moment. Perhaps they didn't look the same to other people. Though to look around, each member of the class would have noticed that they'd made the trek alone. There were no other people to see these numbers.

The room itself was too big for such a small class; three rows of university benches with shelf desks sat in the middle, facing a lecturing podium and a freestanding chalkboard. There were at least four independent layers to the board, and it wrapped a semi-circle around the benches, closing the space off into a much less agoraphobic classroom area.

Atop each bench were sets of goggles, and several silver atomizers. Atop the lecturing podium was a congratulatory fungal bouquet. If your fungiography isn't too rusty, those were ink-caps for success in scholarly ventures, amanita virosa for permanent consequences, and false-blemmigans to wrap the entire thing in a fantastically sarcastic tone of voice.

Class hadn't started yet, and the professor was absent. Students had a little time to introduce themselves to the others.

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