![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tolpen posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
benthic_universityIn spite of everything (or perhaps because of everything) you have returned to the Selected Chapters from Practical Subterranean Mycology. Two weeks have passed since the first lecture which has certainly left an impression.
Your greatest obstacle in getting to the class is a janitor, meticulously mopping the floor. You have to walk over the wet, sparkling clean tiles to get to the class. Hopefully you are in the habit of wearing clean shoes.
This evening the teacher is not in the classroom just yet. You are free to explore the supply closet (brooms, chalk, one (1) bag of dry soil) and admire the changes done since your last visit.
Today the room is candle-lit: cylinders of tallow and wax burn away on the lectern, on the students’ desks and even on the shelves. A few candles are hidden away in hollowed out turnips into the skin of which have been carved grotesque faces. As fresh vegetables – including sad hard watery turnips – are somewhat of a pricey commodity in London, there aren’t that many of them.
The orange-green light and flickering shadows of the candles at first obscure and then highlight another addition: Your artistic endeavours from the previous class. Your drawings of fungi have been copied to posters and hung up on the walls. Your names are written at the bottom, just above the mushroom identification.
Speaking of your names, you might want to put yours down into the ledger to mark your attendance. You came all the way here already.
Then the door is carefully nudged open with a heel and your teacher and lecturer enters, one of the few people you have seen unmasked since Hallowmass has broken out in its full splendour. Following the Mycologist is a rather large trolley cart, overflowing with big orange round… things.
“This is the enormous puffball,” the Mycologist beams at all of you in lieu of a greeting before falling into the chair behind the teacher’s desk. “It isn’t actually related to the calvatia genus whatsoever and it isn’t all that enormous which just proves you should never leave naming conventions to the laymen.”
He waves towards the puffballs: You are to take them. No, he’s not getting up from his chair. The more observant of students notice bandages peeking out beneath the starched collar. It seems that as removed from the revels as he pretends to be, the spirit of the celebrations have led him to the Roof Bellow; he wouldn’t be the only person you’ve seen in such a state.
“Now, this is supposed to be practical subterranean mycology. However, frequently I’ve run into the problem that even senior lecturers don’t know how to handle a living mushroom when presented with one, unless it is on a plate. While I am certain some of you wouldn’t have such a problem, I want to be sure that by the end of this class everyone can prepare samples without self-inflicted amputations. I recommend you work carefully and in gloves.”
The Soft-Eyed Mycologist spills a variety of knives, scalpels, chisels, and handsaws on the teacher’s desk from a drawer. His expression could be described only as ‘gleeful’ if a bit ashen. “As you can see, implements are provided. To practice the full array of methods, I suggest making a simple candle-shader. ‘Tis, as I am told, the season. Should you ruin your specimen, worry not. There are plenty of spares,” he pats one such a spare.
Then he adds: “In the field you are expected to bring your own implements, of course. Working with instruments you are familiar with avoids being surprised by a loan acting capriciously. Some of the tools I have here on the table have been refined with the Red Science. Depending on your skill you are going to be lucky or unlucky to wield one.”
“And while your hands are busy, your ears are not. And therefore I can cover some of the useful fungi. Feel free to have questions.”
Within a few sentences it becomes apparent that London owes much to the Third City and its inhabitants’ dedication to fungal husbandry. It is obvious that this is a topic of passion for your teacher and just talking about it pours a new vigour into his veins. After a while he even gets up from the chair to draw necessary demonstrations on the blackboard.
Almost everyone is aware of sweet morels and many varieties of the field greycaps which can be fermented into alcoholic beverages. Their ability to create and store sugars in their fruiting bodies (mainly in the form of starch) has been cultivated in the for centuries and can be dated all the way to the Third (and possibly even Second and First, but do try to find any records that won’t send the Ministry of Public Decency after you for publishing). The wild field greycaps are in fact rather tangy and bitter. By all means an acquired taste.
However, a civilisation as we know it would fall apart much faster without bark-stalks and cotton sponges – the rich variety of the former provides most of London's wood while the latter is fibrous and gives jobs to arachnophobic spinsters.
You are then shown a tangled phylogeny tree of bark-stalks that form the forests on the edges of London. Apparently just Bugsby’s Marshes host over 30 different species which love to crossbreed with each other – hence some of the truly enormous mushroom-trees and also why most mycologist refuse to identify the bark-stalks further than ‘pinecap’ (for its sticky aromatic milk), ‘birchcap’ (white stem) and ‘cherrycap’ (it does taste like sour cherries if you somehow manage to bite a piece of it). But you are now armed with the actual names, common and scientific as well. That is certain to impress somebody, at some point.
“As you can see, through the husbandry process even a mushroom that is recognised as a detrimental specimen can be made useful. For example peppercaps are famously extremely toxic, but we now farm a refined specimen with lower toxicity as a spice. This process– Oh my, would you look at the time. I suppose this will have to wait until the next class.”
There is no way he did that on purpose, is there?
Your greatest obstacle in getting to the class is a janitor, meticulously mopping the floor. You have to walk over the wet, sparkling clean tiles to get to the class. Hopefully you are in the habit of wearing clean shoes.
This evening the teacher is not in the classroom just yet. You are free to explore the supply closet (brooms, chalk, one (1) bag of dry soil) and admire the changes done since your last visit.
Today the room is candle-lit: cylinders of tallow and wax burn away on the lectern, on the students’ desks and even on the shelves. A few candles are hidden away in hollowed out turnips into the skin of which have been carved grotesque faces. As fresh vegetables – including sad hard watery turnips – are somewhat of a pricey commodity in London, there aren’t that many of them.
The orange-green light and flickering shadows of the candles at first obscure and then highlight another addition: Your artistic endeavours from the previous class. Your drawings of fungi have been copied to posters and hung up on the walls. Your names are written at the bottom, just above the mushroom identification.
Speaking of your names, you might want to put yours down into the ledger to mark your attendance. You came all the way here already.
Then the door is carefully nudged open with a heel and your teacher and lecturer enters, one of the few people you have seen unmasked since Hallowmass has broken out in its full splendour. Following the Mycologist is a rather large trolley cart, overflowing with big orange round… things.
“This is the enormous puffball,” the Mycologist beams at all of you in lieu of a greeting before falling into the chair behind the teacher’s desk. “It isn’t actually related to the calvatia genus whatsoever and it isn’t all that enormous which just proves you should never leave naming conventions to the laymen.”
He waves towards the puffballs: You are to take them. No, he’s not getting up from his chair. The more observant of students notice bandages peeking out beneath the starched collar. It seems that as removed from the revels as he pretends to be, the spirit of the celebrations have led him to the Roof Bellow; he wouldn’t be the only person you’ve seen in such a state.
“Now, this is supposed to be practical subterranean mycology. However, frequently I’ve run into the problem that even senior lecturers don’t know how to handle a living mushroom when presented with one, unless it is on a plate. While I am certain some of you wouldn’t have such a problem, I want to be sure that by the end of this class everyone can prepare samples without self-inflicted amputations. I recommend you work carefully and in gloves.”
The Soft-Eyed Mycologist spills a variety of knives, scalpels, chisels, and handsaws on the teacher’s desk from a drawer. His expression could be described only as ‘gleeful’ if a bit ashen. “As you can see, implements are provided. To practice the full array of methods, I suggest making a simple candle-shader. ‘Tis, as I am told, the season. Should you ruin your specimen, worry not. There are plenty of spares,” he pats one such a spare.
Then he adds: “In the field you are expected to bring your own implements, of course. Working with instruments you are familiar with avoids being surprised by a loan acting capriciously. Some of the tools I have here on the table have been refined with the Red Science. Depending on your skill you are going to be lucky or unlucky to wield one.”
“And while your hands are busy, your ears are not. And therefore I can cover some of the useful fungi. Feel free to have questions.”
Within a few sentences it becomes apparent that London owes much to the Third City and its inhabitants’ dedication to fungal husbandry. It is obvious that this is a topic of passion for your teacher and just talking about it pours a new vigour into his veins. After a while he even gets up from the chair to draw necessary demonstrations on the blackboard.
Almost everyone is aware of sweet morels and many varieties of the field greycaps which can be fermented into alcoholic beverages. Their ability to create and store sugars in their fruiting bodies (mainly in the form of starch) has been cultivated in the for centuries and can be dated all the way to the Third (and possibly even Second and First, but do try to find any records that won’t send the Ministry of Public Decency after you for publishing). The wild field greycaps are in fact rather tangy and bitter. By all means an acquired taste.
However, a civilisation as we know it would fall apart much faster without bark-stalks and cotton sponges – the rich variety of the former provides most of London's wood while the latter is fibrous and gives jobs to arachnophobic spinsters.
You are then shown a tangled phylogeny tree of bark-stalks that form the forests on the edges of London. Apparently just Bugsby’s Marshes host over 30 different species which love to crossbreed with each other – hence some of the truly enormous mushroom-trees and also why most mycologist refuse to identify the bark-stalks further than ‘pinecap’ (for its sticky aromatic milk), ‘birchcap’ (white stem) and ‘cherrycap’ (it does taste like sour cherries if you somehow manage to bite a piece of it). But you are now armed with the actual names, common and scientific as well. That is certain to impress somebody, at some point.
“As you can see, through the husbandry process even a mushroom that is recognised as a detrimental specimen can be made useful. For example peppercaps are famously extremely toxic, but we now farm a refined specimen with lower toxicity as a spice. This process– Oh my, would you look at the time. I suppose this will have to wait until the next class.”
There is no way he did that on purpose, is there?
Re: Before Class
Date: 2025-11-23 09:11 am (UTC)The Authoress provides the name of a serial magazine known for its unpredictable and wild variations in quality. This time, Nemesis is neighbors with Cephalopod Seduction: A Rubbery Romance, which is actually a compelling murder mystery series. Each clue in the web is just as well-planned and detailed as all of the… other scenes, and at times, one gets the idea that the author is only throwing the slavering audience a bone out of obligation before they return to the mystery thriller that they truly want to write.
In other words, the Tailor will find Nemesis closer to Doubt Street.
“There are a decent number of issues out already, but feel free to take your time. It’s not like they can be un-published, no matter how hard the Ministry of Public Decency may try. Should a chapter be banned before you get there… well, I’ll just give it to you myself.” She grins with a smug and near-sadistic satisfaction as she continues, “Cantigaster venom is far too obvious, if you’ve guessed it before you’ve even read the first page. It wouldn’t have worked. I needed something stronger.”
Re: Before Class
Date: 2025-11-23 08:28 pm (UTC)"It's appreciated. I'll see about looking up the work in my free time." They haven't much of that, but they'll make a solid attempt. "And yes- I can see the lack of creativity. It's a writer's first choice, for all the drama in its extraction and application, but originality will do you wonders in standing out."
I needed something stronger sounds less like a writer's need for a more original thought, and more like a personal anecdote. But if the woman knows her poisons already, she wouldn't be taking this class. So the thought is dismissed.
"Well, I do look forward to seeing what this class has to offer you for the subject," they add with a smile. "And that your Hallowmas is a fine one for inspiration."
Class is due to start momentarily, and so the Tailor bids the Authoress a pleasant evening.