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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: After Class
Date: 2025-10-13 07:13 am (UTC)He seriously hopes the Piper won't try to get into the classroom next week. There won't be anyone in here next week. And the Mycologist himself has a rather rigorous security testing planned for that very evening. (speaking of, he has a shopping trip to do for his preparations.)