benthic_university | Correspondence Scholarship, Class Six [Tuesday Morning, July 15]

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correspondence

Correspondence Scholarship, Class Six [Tuesday Morning, July 15]

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…”

The Academic erased the board. “To explain, let us turn our attention to the use of adjectives. Similarly to the prior example, the position of the adjective will denote the relationship of the adjective to the noun. An adjective which does not touch a noun can be inferred to have a weak, or even negative meaning.” The Academic pulled down a blank board, inscribed the symbol for fire, then encircled it with an odd shape. “The adjective for great, mighty. With no lines touching or intersecting, the meaning could be translated as: A fire lacking in fortitude or greatness.”

Next, The Academic picked up an atomizer, and next to the first symbol, inscribed a similar one. This time, the circle crossed through all four lines in fire. The chalk had scarcely completed its revolution, whereupon the lines blazed, and smoke billowed up from the stone.

Almost bored, The Academic doused the offending symbol, and turned back toward the class. “As you have seen, the nearer and adjective draws to a noun- here even overlapping the center of it- the more it indicates a strong correlation. A conflagration of devastating proportions/The thunderclap death of the mighty.” They gave the board another spray from over their shoulder, for good measure. “Adjectives are where we begin to cross from statements of relatively objective fact into the world of opinion, passion, and coercion. This is how it becomes a weapon.”

“Perception shapes reality, and language is a means of communicating that reality. It’s also a means of making a case that your perceived reality is the true one. And when enough people agree with you, it’s not impossible to say that reality itself can change.”

“The Correspondence is a means of arguing your case with the laws of physics itself. You’re shining a dim light into your own perspective, and allowing others to see it. Other opinions are capable of making a much stronger argument, especially those who are more fluent in the Correspondence. Eloquent folks are like that. And your only option is to become more learned and eloquent.”

“Today you will be practicing how to write the symbol for A small but merry warmth. This symbol is difficult, and can be found somewhere between the two extremes I’ve demonstrated on the board today.” The Academic went to the lectern, flipped open their own notebook, wrote something, and then placed their teacup atop it. “If you do it correctly, it will be sufficient to keep a cup of tea warm for several hours. The eternal tragedy of forgetting your cup until long after it’s gone cold? A thing of the past, if you can pull this off.” The Academic dipped from their cup, pleased with the results. “I haven’t given you a perfect example, because I want you to be careful. Mis-writing this symbol will have immediate consequences, as will most unnecessary hyperbole. Be judicious in the emphasis you place on your thoughts in The Correspondence. Be…” The Academic thought for a beat, then snapped their claws, “…temperate.”

“Allez.”

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There was nary a shred of peace allowed with Tularemia and that was exactly the way she liked it. She mussed up their hair effectively before scrambling off their head and looking upon her work with a sense of pride. Now, she could certainly show off her new ribbon, bounding off to present herself to the rest of the class.

In front of the Tailor, the Socialite could be heard softly snickering, having subtly watched the whole affair. "She really is quite fond of you."

They were already slipping the comb out of the bag when the comment was provided, and a small flush crept into their face, but they only set to work tidying their part without the benefit of a mirror.

"The feeling's mutual, though I question my choices sometimes." They teased a curl out of their face, trying to nudge it back. They didn't quite know how to talk to the Socialite--a public setting called for something different, less messy than all the complicated emotions they'd been feeling. They said, instead, "I haven't news yet, regarding our conversation. I will soon." They left it as vague as that.

"That's quite alright. I had expected to need the full week. I've started the studies, but results are..." The Socialite glanced at the books before them, "...slow."

Finally, the Socialite fully turned, the twisting of the rib cage without wince speaking to the remarkably fast healing they'd apparently undergone since last they talked. He kept his voice low and insubstantial as he spoke, not so much whispering as assuring any attention would believe the conversation dull and unenticing. "I do wish to apologize for our last encounter. For what, you are aware of the reason. Sincerely, it was not my nor my spouse's intention to cause you discomfort."

They glanced at the Socialite, attention caught by the turn, and then set the comb down, trying to keep their grip and their gesture relaxed.

"Apology not needed," they said, trying for soft and instead landing somewhere closer to shy. They cleared their throat, unhappy with the results. "These things take time," they said, not specifying which issue they were referring to. "I think you were the one who mentioned endurance paces, not marathons. I'd like to meet your spouse again, under better circumstances."

Their eyes moved over Mori's appearance as they remembered the stitching they had been witness to less than a week prior. "You're well, then? You look in good spirits."

The Socialite smiled and adjusted in his seat. "That I am! Not entirely well, mind. Shapeling arts can only do so much. But I found the purveyor of such arts to be quite skilled and able to help the healing process along at marvelous speeds. As well, the progress made, while slow, is still progress! If I should catch the Emissary in a charming mood, then I should be able to pick their brain for what they, in their many travels, could potentially know."

They nodded quietly, unable to keep a relieved smile at bay. Mori's color looked a little better too, and that he wasn't in any apparent pain--wasn't stressing their body through the work--was a balm they weren't expecting. God, they had started caring so quickly. What a frightening thing.

"I'm glad. I wish you luck in your conversation with them." Their eyes moved to the board, and its prepared diagrams, already discerning some form of patterns. "They're a good resource, certainly. We'll--You'll be at your goal much more quickly with them to assist."

The Socialite waved a hand. "Oh, it'll be but a step. The trick is having the right questions to ask. I still expect to continue with the expedition next week and I still offer the invitation out to you."

"Speaking of the right questions..." The Socialite pulled the notes over, "I have been doing a fair bit of research on your song, but I'm rather in a bind, figuring out which gangs of urchins know it and which don't. Feel free to ignore the question, if it remains a step too far, I can assure you that asking each and all is a step I am willing to take, but the question remains: from whence do you come?"

To go very still in such a setting would be too much a tell, so the Tailor didn't do that. They instead reached into their bag to grab their own notebook, trying to keep their shoulders relaxed.

Nobody was listening. Nobody was listening, and nobody was judging, it was just still--

"The reason I like clothing so much is because I enjoyed snatching hats," they finally said, forcing nonchalance. "Fisher Kings taught me many of the songs I know, but they say it was taught by the wind itself. But as I said, Knotted Socks sang more about the Elder Continent usually. Your best bet on songs in general are the kids with the gray eyes. Younger is better."

Some of it felt ground out, like breaking a promise. But they were no longshanks, and it was for a friend. It was important.

"But they won't talk easy to adults. I know your Dinah is close, but this is... it's hard to explain." They looked hard at their notebook, like it would tell them any answers. "Gifts help. Oaths are better. No small thing, though. Sorry, can we talk about this later?" The wall had come down harder than they'd meant it to--it seemed some loyalties were hard to let go of. And in this setting, they were struggling to find the right words.

And it was too late that the Socialite realized the faux pas. They were in public, around people who didn't know, people who couldn't know, speaking of shared topics that neither of them wanted exposed. You'd think he would've learned by now that walls have ears. He half turned, expecting to be shut down, by the time the Tailor spoke. He winced, immediately regretting all that led up to this point. What had he been thinking? He'd been so caught up on progress, in care, in shared goals, that he'd forgotten how to shut it down.

And he'd done so good around the Professor. But, between the Tailor and the Maven, they'd forgotten...

"Apologies..." The Morbid Socialite forced the frustration, self-judgement, and regret from his voice, but it sounded just a touch too hurt still. He prayed the Tailor didn't think it was directed at them. In an attempt to recover, the Socialite changed physical and conversational direction over to where his stoat was making leaps and bounds over to the Maven and Devil. "The ribbon is lovely on her. You did a wonderful job. I think she might like it."

Sometimes the Tailor wished they didn't need this level of secrecy, but there were too many layers of complexities about it all, so secrecy remained. Even so, the distress in Mori's voice, while not meant for them, felt like a thorn in the chest they'd just have to bear.

They tried to smile, looking over to where Tularemia had skittered off to, and it became a touch more real at the sight of the Devil, of all things. "You were right about the colors. They do look good against her fur. She's going to get a collection if I keep this up though, maybe I should start charging her," they joked softly.

The Socialite gave a soft chuckle. "I believe you'll only be paid by her, if you were to charge her in bats. Living and otherwise, of course. However, considering the craftsmanship, I would be happy to put the exchange rate of echo per bat as..."

The Socialite paused, giving a hum and turning back to the Tailor. "Actually, how much would you charge normally?"

The Tailor blinked. "For a bit of ribbon and lace? It's scraps. Cabbage, we call it. I wouldn't ask for more than a handful of moon pearls over the whole assortment I've done for her."

This wasn't to dismiss the labor that had gone into the creation of the lace, which was its own kind of craftsmanship the Tailor hadn't touched. But waste fabric, while undesirable, was inevitable. To have any use for the bits that were hoarded was considered a good thing--it usually would end up in padding for bustles otherwise.

And, to be honest, the Tailor was still adjusting to the idea of people wanting to pay them personally for their own work. They'd made a quiet arrangement with the Undistinguished Pupil, both requiring discretion over the matter, and that was their first personal client. In all other ways, they were still only an apprentice with a stipend. Despite their clear leaps and bounds and eagerness, being one's own worker with their own clientele seemed out of reach still.

"I dunno. It seems silly to put a price on gifts."

The Socialite nodded in understanding. Craftsmen of different trades would exchange the gift of service with those they were close to without expectation. On the surface, he occasionally stitched up the odd village kid's split lip or scuffed knee for free, just because he loved servicing his home. His colleague once provided free services in a time of mourning... The Tailor providing Tularemia ribbons made of otherwise useless scraps was still priceless, despite the effort that went into it, because it was made up for with care and company and pride.

But the Morbid Socialite had been sent on a train of thought, the timetables steady and punctual, stopping at all major junctions. He nodded and considered and reconsidered and, following the tracks, reached what seemed to him to be a disconnected thought, no longer attached to the idea of repayment, but rather passing by work compensation and personal need.

"How much would a new, fitted overcoat run, would you say?"

For those outside of their head, the Socialite might've still been asking how to repay the Tailor for the ribbons via transitive property.

Admittedly, the thought crossed the Tailor's mind that their friend had meant it as another method of repayment--but their love for their work got ahead of them, and they were thinking of logistics before favors.

"Depends on a few elements. When a person would want it done by, for one thing, fabric, level of detail... If one wanted quality, but wasn't too concerned for timeframe, and it was your very standard style without flourish, I'd say... Fifty echoes? Maybe sixty, sixty-five for an Ulster style--"

They tapped their chin, then pulled out a second notebook, not of flame-proof paper but standard. When they opened it, one could see the shorthand on one side, and the numerous sketches on the other, capturing the silhouette of passerby, quickly drawing the shapes of panels for gowns and coats, imagining or recreating embroidery designs, and on and on. They flipped to a clean page, and began to draw the different shapes from memory, thinking quietly on styles and how bolts of fabric would line up with the seams. Single breasted, double breasted, lined--

"Yes. I think so. I don't do the books for my master, so I'd have to double check. Should I--" they blinked, finally setting the pencil down as they realized how caught up with the simple question they'd become. "Did you want to come into the shop to commission him?"

OOC: Hey, kid. You're dense.

The Socialite watched the Tailor work, nodding along and making mental notes of terms and prices. "I'm not entirely certain what an Ulster is, but do go on..." Still, he nodded, witnessing the poise of an expert.

At the final question, the Socialite looked up with a furrow in his brow. "Why would I wish to commission your master, when I don't know him? Unless I do? But, even still, a one-time escapade is nothing of an accord. I would much rather commission from someone I've surely seen the work of personally and find agreeable. It's a reasonable logic, no?"

"Seen the work o-" The Tailor cut themself off, staring into the middle distance.

"Ah."

They quietly placed a hand over their mouth, ducking their head a little, embarrassed. Still, the hand couldn't hide the growing smile behind it.

"Perfectly reasonable, you're entirely correct. I... am still not used to being one's first choice. Habit directs me to assume one's business is with my employer."

The Socialite smiled fondly. "When I was first stepping away from my apprenticeship, I was much the same. Still, having seen your work on a personal level, testing its mettle against impact, stretching, staining, and cutting, whilst still looking dashing, I would of course wish to commission you, when I can see to the funds of a new coat. This one..." The Socialite considered the coat on his chair and sighed. "Good for other things, I'm sure. It's served me well for years."

The Tailor glanced over the coat in question, the same one they'd seen in the Socialite's home which had been worn and darned. It was a lovely thing, true, and it matched their friend well: elegant at the glance, but revealing wear if one looked too long.

No, it wouldn't do. The Socialite knew just how important impressions were, knew just how much clothes could make a man. Mori deserved better.

"Right," the Tailor said very firmly, snapping their little book shut, "the next time I am in your home I'm bringing my tape measure and notes. We'll worry about the construction and the fabric selection when your funds allow for it, but seeing as we'll need to meet regarding our other endeavors, if you're serious about the request, we can at least go over your preferences. Does that sound agreeable?"

Oh no, they were so businesslike! How adorably serious they looked about it, smiling pleasantly across the table.

The Socialite did love their usual coat. It was still warm when it needed to be and did well at blending in or sticking out. He bought it with his first payment and had worn it ever since. And it was falling apart, the sleeves having started giving out two months ago, the trimmed waist wearing four months before that, and he'd found a hole in the lining last night. He'd always darned it, hemmed it, restitched it whenever it showed its age, but it was precious, a memory. Which was why it had to be put away, before it could fall apart completely. A personal occasion coat, a wedding coat, a funeral coat, and, when it has served its last, perhaps there would be another use for the fabric. Or perhaps he would wear it in his own casket, should he need one.

Whatever the future of it was, it could no longer serve as a more regularly worn coat. There was no one the Socialite trusted more to do it and him justice than the Tailor. It was in their title, after all, as well as their work.

"Quite agreeable." The Socialite nodded with a confident smile and pulled a note from the inside pocket, passing it along to the Tailor. "This has my correct measurements as of three weeks ago. Among other things, of course, but when in dire need of a coat, cardiac assistance, or a coffin, I imagine these details will be useful. At least, as a starting point." It was all so fondly formal and businesslike, a blend of appreciation with professionalism.

The grin broke out proper now. The Tailor accepted the slip, glancing it over with an approving nod, and then slid it safely into their book. "I'll copy these details over and have it back to you quickly. Very useful, I think. Of course, those were before someone began their foray into the Shapeling arts," they teased very lightly, though there was still that etiquette of formality in it. "Should you keep experimenting with your shape, as some in this town do," they glanced at the Professor without judgement, but with meaning, "your tailor should be advised quickly and discretely regarding alterations."

It was easier to be like this, they found. A little bit of play, a little bit of work, the Tailor seemed confident and at ease. The past week had been a lot, but the stress that had plagued them had retreated.

They slid their little notebook out of the way for now. Class would be beginning soon. "We can discuss this more later, of course. Thank you." Their eyes crinkled with the genuine sentiment.

(A client! A real client!)

The Socialite laughed at the bit of teasing, light and careless. "I promise, should I venture further, my Tailor will be the first person I tell. I look forward to working with you." With a playful wink, he turned back to the front, allowing the Tailor some time to sort themselves out.

(Yes! Success! Not only could he get the Tailor to cheer up, but he could also support their business! What a relief! He was going to get good marks in parenti- I mean, friendship.)

Edited 2025-07-16 14:31 (UTC)

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Correspondence Scholarship, Class Six [Tuesday Morning, July 15]

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