benthic_university | Correspondence Scholarship, Class Five [Tuesday Morning, July 8]

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.”

Chalk in hand, a diagram was drawn on this board.

“A, B, C, D,” your instructor’s hand shook, and a fifth symbol was nothing but a scrawl.

With a hiss, chalk hit floor. “It is taboo! An awful prohibition upon our writing and talking!” Palms hit podium. “STILL, CLASS WILL CARRY ONWARD.”

“At your stations, you will all find small vials and a writing tool. This is violant ink.” A sigh of comfort: two words vital to this class’s curriculum also would carry on.

“Violant is a shortcut to notability. It’s a flashy trick, though a formal artisan should work grandly without it. Think on italics, or bold fonts. Should all words show as bold, this would simply harm its impact.”

“Thus: you will try this ink. Your vials may only hold a small amount. Limit your utility. Thin it down as you dip it. Scratch most words in a dissimilar ink. Vary your trials.” Going for that front door, your instructor brought additional round optics atop long sinus. “But look out: Too much violant will burn into your mind, dwindling down to only a brain which cannot think of anything but that information. No risk of smoky conflagration if scripting in good ol’ British! But do NOT mind-sully your copains, s’il vous plaît.”

Ah. Whipping out that trusty gaulois. This door difficulty was holding your instructor’s focus. As pupils try out violant ink, difficult work occurs on that door. It is a tricky sigil, and two hours pass in mum workmanship. It burns away additional nib-work, and hands too if both approach too nigh.

Occasionally, soft complaining would waft across your classroom. All originating from your instructor.

"Soon. I will again lay hands onto that odious myotis…that nyctophilic cr- monst-“ Hissing turns to snarling- “that THING! It will gift a thousand sorry-s by that hour of my talion!”

Many not so softly.

Toward conclusion of your class, this placid air cracks in an…

…explosion.

Embers, enormous eruptions ejecting erratically. Exhaust evaporates, Ex-Disgraced Educator’s eyebrows elevated; exasperated expression evolving exceptional enmity.

Utterly enraged, The Ex-Disgraced Academic shrieked: "The Eejit Aerofauna implanted three fail-safes?! Ever extremely excessive! The excess, indeed, the overplenitude regarding appending MORE instances re: the frequent-est English letter! The miscreant!”

Forearms flexing beneath tattered sleeves, they grabbed the singed door, wrenching leftward. There the starkest splintering, then the entire panel ripped free.

They chucked the porte twenty feet outside, then stomped behind it.

“SESSION ADJOURNED!” They yelled, departing.

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The Piper snatches the paper airplane from the air, bright eyed at the fascinating construction. So simple, so elegant, so - freaking cool, it fully steals their attention away from their practice.

The unfold the page, eager to reverse-engineer the construction -

Ignorance. Bliss.

They swallow dryly, wishing for the spray bottles of the previous weeks.

They close their eyes, but the words are still burned there, a painful reminder of what they can no longer pretend to be ignorant of. Was it bliss? The looking for answers a lot more fun than the finding them, sometimes. There's a phrase for that, five words, none of which would be censored by the room's current curse.

They shake their head and bite their lip. Ignoring. Bliss.

They write those five words back, and recreate the airborne contraption with a series of careful folds. The throw is directed back towards the Mycologist, but with unpracticed aim and understanding of aerodynamics, it could land anywhere.

"fuck around and find out"

This Tutor sat, torn among sinking in thought about how to act such social trial, and an Instructor's fight with burning symbols. That instant had an aircraft finding its way against such body.

Frowning at startling situation, Tutor holds and unfolds, assimilating a writen word with inky aid. Fuck! That was a fucking way to fucking do this, fucking in fact. So for putting fucking hands in said fucking matter and fuck it until it is fucking writ.

Correspondence Scholarship, Class Five [Tuesday Morning, July 8]

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