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benthic_universityThe Selected Chapters from Practical Subterranean Mycology have a reputation of a laid-back class which more than anything else serves as a meeting spot for the naturalist freaks eccentrics of Benthic. Reader Guildenstern, who has been teaching this class for years, is known to use the allotted time to share dirt on personal anecdotes from the lives of his most respectable colleagues. Which is precisely the reason why no student is allowed to take up the class more than once in their lifetime – to prevent amassing of too much power in one pair of hands
But the day when all the classes are posted and signing up for them is available, there is, as the academics call it, a minor uproar. The aforementioned Selected Chapters are entirely missing from this year register. There are complaints. Bolder individuals threaten to demand back tuition paid.
After much fussing about, the Chairman of the Subterranean Mycology Department gives a public apology for this – and several other – clerical errors, and the omitted class appears with its lost compatriots on the bottom of the register. It now bears such disrespectful neighbours as Cellular Mechanisms and Crimson Genetics. Yes, we suppose those are alright courses to attend if you want to make money, publish papers and maybe push the quality of life forward for further generations. But this is a university, for grief’s sake! One’s primary goal is to increase their own social standing.
Because of this little clerical oversight, the class is held in one of the smaller lecture halls in the basement. It is not particularly hard to find if you know where you are going. The class is also held fairly late. Not awfully late, but certainly you are missing some of the happy hours in less secluded places, such as the Veilgarden.
There aren’t that many students. Most of them already have a busy schedule with the classes that were posted on time. But the door is not locked and the timetable clearly says that the Selected Chapters begin in a couple of minutes.
As far as lecture halls go, this one is nothing to write home about. Rows of chairs bolted to desks bolted to the floor, all in orderly rows, rows gradually rise as they are further from the three-winged blackboard. No windows; this is a basement. Minimal decorations. Electric lights bathe the room in warm light. Quite the novelty to have them installed here.
On the desks you find a variety of potted mushrooms. Some you know, common bolete, a marvelously orange chanterelle, this one whose name you have on the tip of your tongue and is used as a filler in bouquets. Some you do not know, although the one that looks like a cracked egg is somewhat familiar.
The man standing at the lectern – it is hasty to make such presumptions on sight, but you are going to verify them within moments anyway – is of unimpressive size. You note him for having a long braid of dark hair, a pince-nez with dimly blue lenses, and very soft smile with which he invites the first incoming to sign in the ledger, and by extension up for the class.
When you all are seated and no new foot enters the class, he closes the ledger with a very definite snap and steps to the lectern.
“I wish you all a good evening,” he addresses you all for the first time. He has a voice like velvet if velvet carried the clarity of a churchbell. Some people manage being heard in large rooms by shouting. Your teacher doesn’t have to resort to such tactics; each of you hears him as clearly as if he stood right next to you.
“I would like to inform you that Professor Guildenstern is dead and he shall not be holding any classes for the foreseeable future. I have been asked by our department Chairman to deliver the Selected Chapters from Practical Subterranean Mycology instead.”
The Soft-Eyed Mycologist writes his name on the top of the leftmost blackboard. At least you presume so. Remnants of Hudum in the Forgotten Quarter are pinnacle of legibility compared to whatever this is. That might be an E in the middle? Following the name is the number of his home-room, in slightly shaky Roman numerals.
“This class takes the standard course length and as such it requires standard grading. I have reviewed Professor Guildenstern’s syllabus from years prior, and decided for a more sensible approach: Your final grade will be the child of two components:
Firstly, you shall write an essay and submit. The topic is of your own choosing. Selection of a topic appropriate and related to the class, however, can make up to forty per cent of the score for it. Cite some sources, back up whatever you put down. Be persuasive, be shrewd, be convincing. Remember, these are respectable academic grounds; plagiarism and fabrication is entirely fair game as long as you do not get caught.
The deadline on this essay is the end of our fifth class together; if by then I don’t have at least something from you, however publishable, you fail by default. There will be no extensions and no resubmissions. Gone Hell or high water, the deadline stays. Plan your life’s catastrophes and cataclysms accordingly.”
He clasps his hands together before resting them on the lectern: “The second part of your grade will be the final exam, held during the last class. The exam will be practical and designed to test all you might have and might have not learned. I am going to be testing your skills, not your ability to cram the content of a book into your short-term memory. Some students tend to be surprised by that; I am stating it outright so you wouldn’t be.”
There is a brief pause for questions anyone might have before the class moves on to the actual lecture.
The Mycologist beams a bright smile at you all: “For our first exercise I’ve chosen something that highlights two of the load-bearing columns of science: Replicability and specificity. I am certain you all have noticed by now the potted fungi on your desks. Your task is to draw them, any of them, such that your classmates would be able to recognise them. You do not have to make a realistic life-like piece of artwork as long as the mushroom is identifiable. Whoever finds themselves without supplies, I have borrowed pencils from the mycology department, as well as paper.”
It seems that for the remaining 90-odd minutes, this is what you are to do.
But the day when all the classes are posted and signing up for them is available, there is, as the academics call it, a minor uproar. The aforementioned Selected Chapters are entirely missing from this year register. There are complaints. Bolder individuals threaten to demand back tuition paid.
After much fussing about, the Chairman of the Subterranean Mycology Department gives a public apology for this – and several other – clerical errors, and the omitted class appears with its lost compatriots on the bottom of the register. It now bears such disrespectful neighbours as Cellular Mechanisms and Crimson Genetics. Yes, we suppose those are alright courses to attend if you want to make money, publish papers and maybe push the quality of life forward for further generations. But this is a university, for grief’s sake! One’s primary goal is to increase their own social standing.
Because of this little clerical oversight, the class is held in one of the smaller lecture halls in the basement. It is not particularly hard to find if you know where you are going. The class is also held fairly late. Not awfully late, but certainly you are missing some of the happy hours in less secluded places, such as the Veilgarden.
There aren’t that many students. Most of them already have a busy schedule with the classes that were posted on time. But the door is not locked and the timetable clearly says that the Selected Chapters begin in a couple of minutes.
As far as lecture halls go, this one is nothing to write home about. Rows of chairs bolted to desks bolted to the floor, all in orderly rows, rows gradually rise as they are further from the three-winged blackboard. No windows; this is a basement. Minimal decorations. Electric lights bathe the room in warm light. Quite the novelty to have them installed here.
On the desks you find a variety of potted mushrooms. Some you know, common bolete, a marvelously orange chanterelle, this one whose name you have on the tip of your tongue and is used as a filler in bouquets. Some you do not know, although the one that looks like a cracked egg is somewhat familiar.
The man standing at the lectern – it is hasty to make such presumptions on sight, but you are going to verify them within moments anyway – is of unimpressive size. You note him for having a long braid of dark hair, a pince-nez with dimly blue lenses, and very soft smile with which he invites the first incoming to sign in the ledger, and by extension up for the class.
When you all are seated and no new foot enters the class, he closes the ledger with a very definite snap and steps to the lectern.
“I wish you all a good evening,” he addresses you all for the first time. He has a voice like velvet if velvet carried the clarity of a churchbell. Some people manage being heard in large rooms by shouting. Your teacher doesn’t have to resort to such tactics; each of you hears him as clearly as if he stood right next to you.
“I would like to inform you that Professor Guildenstern is dead and he shall not be holding any classes for the foreseeable future. I have been asked by our department Chairman to deliver the Selected Chapters from Practical Subterranean Mycology instead.”
The Soft-Eyed Mycologist writes his name on the top of the leftmost blackboard. At least you presume so. Remnants of Hudum in the Forgotten Quarter are pinnacle of legibility compared to whatever this is. That might be an E in the middle? Following the name is the number of his home-room, in slightly shaky Roman numerals.
“This class takes the standard course length and as such it requires standard grading. I have reviewed Professor Guildenstern’s syllabus from years prior, and decided for a more sensible approach: Your final grade will be the child of two components:
Firstly, you shall write an essay and submit. The topic is of your own choosing. Selection of a topic appropriate and related to the class, however, can make up to forty per cent of the score for it. Cite some sources, back up whatever you put down. Be persuasive, be shrewd, be convincing. Remember, these are respectable academic grounds; plagiarism and fabrication is entirely fair game as long as you do not get caught.
The deadline on this essay is the end of our fifth class together; if by then I don’t have at least something from you, however publishable, you fail by default. There will be no extensions and no resubmissions. Gone Hell or high water, the deadline stays. Plan your life’s catastrophes and cataclysms accordingly.”
He clasps his hands together before resting them on the lectern: “The second part of your grade will be the final exam, held during the last class. The exam will be practical and designed to test all you might have and might have not learned. I am going to be testing your skills, not your ability to cram the content of a book into your short-term memory. Some students tend to be surprised by that; I am stating it outright so you wouldn’t be.”
There is a brief pause for questions anyone might have before the class moves on to the actual lecture.
The Mycologist beams a bright smile at you all: “For our first exercise I’ve chosen something that highlights two of the load-bearing columns of science: Replicability and specificity. I am certain you all have noticed by now the potted fungi on your desks. Your task is to draw them, any of them, such that your classmates would be able to recognise them. You do not have to make a realistic life-like piece of artwork as long as the mushroom is identifiable. Whoever finds themselves without supplies, I have borrowed pencils from the mycology department, as well as paper.”
It seems that for the remaining 90-odd minutes, this is what you are to do.
Re: Activity
Date: 2025-10-07 09:07 pm (UTC)They are an old hand at drawing what they see. It's not a skill learned through a teacher but through time. Laying pencil to page, the Tailor hardly needs to look down to get the shape on the page, and then they allow themself to turn attention to details. There's a feathery quality to the skin of the mushroom, but the drips themselves shine in the lamplight.
There is something very like the shape of a woman's skirt to the body of the mushroom, they consider while they work. Imagine, if you will, a gown with a hem that has beads all around. Highly impractical, likely to be damaged. The sort of thing for dreams only. But still, there may be something to take away from a mushroom when it comes to designing clothing. It's the Tailor's work after all, and they're prone to seeing it in everything. How else to make it relevant to them?
Re: Activity
Date: 2025-10-12 03:25 am (UTC)Re: Activity
Date: 2025-10-12 03:32 am (UTC)Re: Activity
Date: 2025-10-12 03:47 am (UTC)It's hard to picture Tailor as a kid. Maybe they just don't know how to picture any of their friends as kids, honestly. It's not like they have any remembered experience to draw from. But they find this bit of information about their friend strangely sweet, for some reason.
"Ooh, if I get to pick..." They scoot over a pot with a Veiled Lady. Perhaps complicated to draw, but it'll just be that much more impressive, then. And the resemblance to a lacy gown is enough to make it an obvious choice. "How do you like this one?"
Re: Activity
Date: 2025-10-12 04:39 am (UTC)Lace was always tricky to draw: either one drew the lace, or drew the negative space instead. How fine did one draw the thing? how much of the material behind it did one capture? It was a hard call, but the best place to start was with the whole shape, and so the underlying body was drawn lightly, and then the bell of the lacy cover, before details began to be laid in. Don't make it uniform, but let the twining connections be of similar weight. Value laid on the structure below.
Eventually, the Tailor produced something they weren't wholly satisfied with, but was at least recognizable.
"How's that, then? Something like a veil, I think." They could see it on a hat, actually. Well, a better version anyway. "Identifiable enough?"
Re: Activity
Date: 2025-10-12 04:46 am (UTC)Re: Activity
Date: 2025-10-12 05:03 am (UTC)They tipped their head back, finger tapping their cheek. "Can I see yours?"
Re: Activity
Date: 2025-10-13 01:32 am (UTC)Re: Activity
Date: 2025-10-13 02:42 am (UTC)"They're very clear in their depictions. You have a good eye and excellent control of the medium. Well done." They handed the book back, looking back to their own sketch, before closing the book. "All that work with your kazoos must really be paying off. Shows how passionate you are for the subject, at the very least."
It's not a bloody contest, they told themself sternly. There was plenty that the Piper was good at that the Tailor was not and it wasn't a big deal. Dumb.
"What, er, can you tell me about each one? I've never really tried to learn them."
Re: Activity
Date: 2025-10-15 04:31 am (UTC)"This one's a puffball!" They pointed to the big one in the middle, which they'd tried to capture as a challenge - the thing was just a big round ball, without much texture, which made identifying features difficult in a drawing. "You can eat them, long as they're still white all the way through. If you cut it open and it's brown or green or falls apart, it's not gonna be good anymore."
"This little one's the same as yours, a shaggy mane inky cap. They really are some of my favorites." They pointed to the tiny one on the right side of the page.
"These ones are inky caps too, just a different kind. Shaggy manes are always safe to eat. These," they tapped their painting with a fingernail, "you shouldn't eat within a week of having alcohol, unless you want to have a bad time." Ask them how they know. Or don't, if you remember.
"And this one down here's an Amanita! Amanita muscaria. Not sure if there's a relation to the brandy. It's, uh, well I can't say it's a good idea to eat this one, but some people do it on purpose, anyway." They have, of course, though 'on purpose' is... well, they weren't trying for the psychoactive effects, they were just. Y'know. Being Piper. "Can't grow it, though. You only ever find 'em around trees."
That's the first detail they've shared that isn't about eating them. But what did you expect, asking Piper?
Re: Activity
Date: 2025-10-15 05:59 am (UTC)Well. They weren't the Lied Mycologist, now, were they?
Re: Activity
Date: 2025-10-16 05:12 am (UTC)"Besides the inkcaps, you wouldn't find these around much, anyway," Piper added, voice a little sheepish. "Not outside of class. They're originally surface mushrooms - well, the inkcaps are too, but they've adapted a bit better. The others you'd have to go really out of your way to hunt them down here. Which is part of the fun, to me."
Re: Activity
Date: 2025-10-16 06:29 am (UTC)They grinned. "Did you hear that one professor earlier ask if we were going to try mushroom wines in class? Like we're Stoats or something. One wonders what the prior educator thought passed for a curriculum."
Re: Activity
Date: 2025-10-17 02:08 am (UTC)They grinned when Tailor brought up the wine tasting.
"You know I wouldn't complain about any free drinks with class. Wouldn't want you to fail an assignment 'cause of allergies, though." They chuckled; they knew the Mycologist wouldn't do anything like that to them. Then, a little quieter, though still with good humor, "Couldn't be any worse than our last class, right?"
Re: Activity
Date: 2025-10-17 04:08 am (UTC)"Truly, couldn't be," they agreed. "Can you envision managing this class without an entire letter of the alphabet?"
Eyes went to their teacher briefly. The Tailor considered something quietly. "No, I imagine this one will likely not be as dramatic, if our professor has his way. But still, I hope it is at least... enjoyable to teach."
They hummed, eyes returning to the Piper. "Is that why you signed on? Looking to be less of a hobbyist? Or were you just looking for some culinary ideas?"
Re: Activity
Date: 2025-10-17 07:51 pm (UTC)