The Soft-Eyed Mycologist takes notes at a speed that almost justifies the illegibility of his writing. If he takes his coffee this strong, it would explain why the lettering is so jittery, too.
He takes a sip himself, weighs the liquid in his mouth for a moment, and adds a few sharp additions to what he has written so far.

The page in the notebook is marked with a scrap of green paper. An entire rainbow is sticking at odd angles out of the monstrosity of notes.

"Well, technically," his grin can be described only as smug, "what thou art tasting are Devil's bolete, dead moll's fingers, and a trio of water fungi from the Blastocladia family, which has no such poetic name as its distant siblings people don't need a microscope for."
He waits for a beat, takes another sip of coffee and adds: "However, I have been cultivating them in my laboratory since the rain has stopped, and they've made a wonderful progress as to taste and toxins. I have a pack of this batch still in the lab if thou hast interest in it. No more than a spoonful a day, though. It still is the Devil's bolete. Overindulgence might prove costly for thee."