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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?
Sign In
Date: 2025-10-21 08:31 am (UTC)Before Class
Date: 2025-10-21 08:32 am (UTC)Lecture
Date: 2025-10-21 08:34 am (UTC)Activity
Date: 2025-10-21 08:37 am (UTC)If that isn't enough, some of the knives, chisels and saws have a touch of the Red Science to them, a sigil of the Correspondence engraved somewhere subtly on the carving part. Some tools cut only in one direction, some are capable of cutting only a few inches before its physical form, and some are best left for yourself to discover. The implements of Red Science are easily recognised by being slightly warmer to the touch.
You can borrow a candle from anywhere to illuminate your work from within.
After Class
Date: 2025-10-21 08:41 am (UTC)There is precisely one book for every student.
OOC
Date: 2025-10-21 08:56 am (UTC)In other news, I am now officially older than I was a year before and I still haven't had any pumpkin spice latte this year. It's out in the open now.
Re: Sign In
Date: 2025-10-21 10:52 am (UTC)The former dons a porcelain-like mask, translucent in shades of fiery red, forming a shape reminiscent of an angular human face by combining several animals in a sort of eye-decieving tangram. Underneath it is a long labcoat painstakingly dyed in a fading gradient of crimson to simulate having been covered in blood (or perhaps it actually was, but the effect is too good-looking to be an accident). Their scales, when shown in the hands or the corners of the face, are a shimmering rainbow.
The latter dons no mask nor disguise, for the Hallowmas revels are specially dangerous for surfacers, and the best way to opt out is to be bare-faced and reject the season's protection against law and order.
What the Industrialist does, however, is to gently lift the Professor's mask and give them a highly inappropriate kiss, mostly due to its depth and duration. Followed by a quite intentionally loud and quite intentionally in English:
"Happy birthday, love!"
Once the deed wqs done, them both bid farewells, Professor signing flustered, Industrialist walking out satisfied.
Re: Before Class
Date: 2025-10-21 10:58 am (UTC)They are completely defenceless against anyone willing to start a conversation.
Re: OOC
Date: 2025-10-21 03:23 pm (UTC)I will be Sherma from Silksong. I’ve put golden paper around a conical hat. I have a screwdriver wrapped in aluminum foil. I have a paper plate with eyes drawn on it. I have a diminutive stature and a love of song. One could say I was born for the role.
Re: OOC
Date: 2025-10-21 03:32 pm (UTC)Sadly I won't be having a costume this year, but I always love hearing others about them ^^
Re: Sign In
Date: 2025-10-21 04:06 pm (UTC)He signed on the sheet and found his seat with haste, happy to get off his feet.
Re: Before Class
Date: 2025-10-21 05:19 pm (UTC)It was in turning his head that the Guest spotted the decor. He sat up with a controlled breath and hummed. A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, seeing the sparse turnips carved to hold candles. He remembered carving a jack once. Most turnips and other rare vegetables or fruits were saved for food, but he had exactly one experience carving a rather pathetic face into a small turnip for Hallowmas as a child. They always brought back some small, fond memories.
The Guest would keep his mask on as he settled in, wondering idly if anyone would recognize it. A quirk of a mischievous smile arose as he thought about his other friends' reactions. This time of year, it was fun getting a harmless rise out of people. Unlikely to happen here, but one never knows.
Re: Sign In
Date: 2025-10-21 05:42 pm (UTC)She counsels with a sympathetic peer, who tells her it would be acceptable to return in costume. Perfect! The Cackling Authoress pops down to the Genial Mad Scientist’s lab and returns with a lab coat stained in real blood, of which they has plenty. She completes the look by tucking scalpels and forceps and other little tools into her pockets, and choosing a suitably menacing bonesaw to carry in her hands. Unfortunately, these have been thoroughly wiped after use and are not stained with blood—their lab has cleanliness standards, after all.
Either way, the Cackling Authoress sweeps back into class looking like a surgeon on duty—which she was, in a way, just earlier today. She signs her name in the attendance ledger and takes her seat, satisfied with her creativity on a time limit.
Re: Activity
Date: 2025-10-21 06:02 pm (UTC)To begin the activity, they have to identify the enormous puffball's structure to be able to properly carve it, so the first sample has to be sacrificed for science. The Professor stands up and goes towards the displayed courtesy tools, passing a hand over them to feel those branded by Law. Some examination allowed them to identify an scalpel the cuts of which go ahead than its touch, and tweezers which grab rather than nip, and those are the ones selected together with a pu(mpkin)ffball, and they set to work.
They discover how hard and thick the outer layer is, how the inside is foliated thus establishing an axis of easy cuts and thus one of difficult cuts, as well as the milk leaking when the fibres are cut, and the eagerness with which the spores are released when any movement comes their way. This has been a very enlightening dissection, and also one that helped enrich their Hallowmas disguise, so they call that a success!
Now that they know what they are doing, they go pick another orange puffball. Now the scalpel's function comes to play, just caressing the skin without cutting when it actually was slicing the fibrous flesh, making many concentric cuts along the lines, then against circling the top, and they shake it a bit, pressing the ear. Yes, the milk is flowing out, safely concealed inside. Now the spore sack, easy enough, a swift puncture from below, a twist of the scalpel, then retreat... Good. Now it is time to vigorously shake the cocktail, using both hands and fast motions to get the spores released free and the milk squeezed out the flesh... To finally open a superficial, circular cut on the lower base and pour the contents on a voluminous bowl, having now a gourmet fungal milkshake not to be drinked. Then the tweezers prove their usefulness by grabbing the now mostly dry fibrous flesh and picking it apart, fiber bundle after fiber bundle, without breaking them and making for an easier cleaning of the inside.
Once with a hollowed puffball, the designing started. They had it clear: A Hallowmas spider! So they proceeded to carve out eight eyes well spaced between them, and an arthropod mouth bearing approaches at chelicera and palps which, seen from the front, looked kinda cute. To complete, the Professor carved eight holes along the surface, four on each side, and scrapping strips of the first subject's crust added eight spindly legs. Now to find a good candle, cover it with the Hallowmas puffball and look at it! Such a cute, festive spider for the Season of Confessions.
Before the Professor notices, the class reaches an end. This has been amusing! And the explanations so interesting. The Mycologist was quite right, most teachers have little to compare to him.
Re: OOC
Date: 2025-10-21 06:11 pm (UTC)Re: Before Class
Date: 2025-10-21 06:19 pm (UTC)As she lays her supplies on the desk, she takes stock of the decorations. Having little knowledge of European traditions, this is all amusingly novel to her. In the frantic death spiral of the last two years (towards someone else’s death, not hers), she has seen Hallowmas festivities go past, but not celebrated them herself. Perhaps her vigor will desert her and familiar melancholy will overtake her when she leaves, but in this safe classroom full of friendly faces, she finds the inclination to get up and wander about, in search of a closer look at everything and a chance at some social interaction.
Re: Lecture
Date: 2025-10-21 07:07 pm (UTC)Re: Sign In
Date: 2025-10-21 08:35 pm (UTC)Re: Before Class
Date: 2025-10-21 08:40 pm (UTC)"My my, it seems there's now two mad scientists within this class. Hallowmas bless our bloody breakthroughts, esteemed colleague." Said with a wide grin only barely visible under the mask.
Re: Activity
Date: 2025-10-21 08:52 pm (UTC)Taking a breath, the Guest stood and limped to where the puffballs were kept. He picked out one with a flatter surface on one side for carving. They seemed firm and solid, an ear pressed to the flesh while giving a thump with one hand showed a somewhat hollow sound, blocked by whatever guts and gills sat inside. With his other hand, he hovered over the provided tools, hand freezing every once in a while over one of the slightly warm tools, breathing stiffly controlled. He intentionally grabbed tools that were as cold as possible, avoiding even touching anything that emanated warmth. Even if he witnessed someone just return the tool and their own hands were why it was still warm, he still avoided it, just in case.
He brought the puffball back to his seat under one arm and sat with it, taking the time to observe it. There was some sort of stem or tendril on the bottom, indicating where the mushroom had previously grown from. He took one of the carving knives and started with lining a hole around the base, big enough to stick his arm in. Sticking the knife in deeper, he immediately struck the spore sack, the pressurized spores launching out of the new opening and into the Guest's face. He coughed and spluttered, the hand with a covering cloth not reaching his face in time. He sneezed three times in quick succession before he was able to gather himself and observe the damage. It was easy to see that the combination of spores and fungal milk had turned into a sticky, brightly colored stain on his face and shirt.
Fine. He knew how to be hard on stains and could take care of his clothes later. He took a handkerchief to his face and took up the small handsaw. Adjusting his angle and positioning, he more carefully avoided the spore sack and finally extracted the offending fungal organ with care. Carefully, meticulously (and through terrifically awful trial and error), the Guest learned how to remove the flesh from the skin and pulled free the milky fibres. He moved slowly, taking breaks to massage his aching muscles and figure out what he was doing. He tried to ignore how he was still sniffling from the onslaught of spores.
When he finally emptied out the puffball and stymied the leaking of golden milk, the Guest considered the frankly mischievous mushroom and tilted his head. He took up a tool to further scrape the inside of the skin to thin out the area to carve and measured it against the scalpel. Between the scalpel and the handsaw, he was able to create a frankly horrifying face out of the skin, teeth bared, eyes scowling. He looked between that and a sketch he'd drafted of a somewhat cute, smiling face and frowned.
The Guest retrieved a smaller mushroom, repeated the process of cleaning and carving with less failures, and created something... only slightly less horrifying in visage. He cocked his head the other way. Boy, he wasn't very good at carving, huh?
Re: Before Class
Date: 2025-10-21 09:01 pm (UTC)Re: Before Class
Date: 2025-10-21 09:08 pm (UTC)"Oh dear, the very Scarlet Spectre has come to our class! Should I expect you to ransack all our fungi before making a daring escape which of course will involve a passionate kiss to our attractive teacher?"
Okay, that was projecting indeed. But given the mysterious gentleman-thief's reputation, it was at least believable.
Re: Before Class
Date: 2025-10-21 09:19 pm (UTC)The Guest snorted, unable to keep the persona up. He laughed and settled back in his seat with a grunt. "Sweet Jesus, that's always a gas... Evening, Professor. What's the craic? How are you? Must say, your mask looks grand."
Re: Before Class
Date: 2025-10-21 09:27 pm (UTC)"Oh, you're good! I'd be careful with the Constables if I were you." A playful wink. "Good evening, fair Guest. I am feeling better than in quite a long time. And thank you, I am quite fond of it. A good friend of mine sent me drafts and notes on the Presbyterate kingdom of Caution, and it served as inspiration. Based on those, I commissioned for this design to be made into a mask and it seems to work, doesn't it?"
A claw taps at the mask, producing pleasant ceramic clinks.
"And I'm afraid I come to you with an apology. Last week has been terribly busy, and couldn't get much done regarding our project. But rest assured, I plan on having results by this Friday, if you're available."
Re: Before Class
Date: 2025-10-21 09:43 pm (UTC)He sat and listened as the Professor went on about the mask. "Caution... Huh. Should get outside of London more. Haven't ever heard of it. Maybe you can tell me about it, one of these days."
The Guest might've been using too many phrases with the Professor that wouldn't make much sense outside of Ireland, but he was somewhat thrilled to have someone to go at it with and he'd missed not having to tone everything down. "Oh, g'way outta that! Nothing for it, aye? Hell, if you'd had answers in a week, I wouldn't have believed you. I'll have the door unlocked this Friday for you, then."