Mycology Seminar - Class Six-and-One [Tuesday Evening, 13th of January]

[tolpen]

This fine evening you are returned to your home classroom. Gone is the festive decor, including all the elephants which can now be assumed thoroughly refuted. The posters with your artwork done during the first class remain, although they seem to have switched places here and there. The paper certainly seems newer. On the other hand, the bowl of apples has returned. The apples are smaller, darker and lumpy. They taste sour, and try as you might, the brown juice will drip down your chin, it is entirely unavoidable. They are also very fulfilling, you don’t have to eat too many to feel full.
As you mingle and find your seat – God gracious, have you forgotten your usual spot over the course of the winter break? – there is something odd in the air. It takes you a moment to put a finger on it.
The teacher is absent!
Actually… The teacher is late. By ten-and-something minutes. You’ve known the Soft-Eyed Mycologist to be most punctual, at least for the class.
He does arrive though, and with him he brings the trolley cart you’ve come to learn to love, or at least get higher expectations as to what is going to be the practical portion of the class. Today it holds small round aquariums – the kind in which you are not supposed to keep fish long-term. The interior is full of something dense and white. Milk or sentient fog would be a fine guess, but the contents do not slosh nor swirl like a fluid would. A particularly homogenous cotton?

Massaging his temples, the Mycologist begins the class without any further ado. There are none of the jokes lecturers usually do in the first class after any break. Maybe he is not pleased to see you didn’t get yourself killed for good. Maybe he has a headache that threatens to claim sovereignty. This is as bad a moment as any to start a betting pool on when exactly that is going to occur.
“This is our last class before the final exam. As revising time is only two weeks–” you all are students, s long as you’ve got, like, four hours and enough willpower which can be supplanted by caffeine, you can pass any exam (besides Modern English Literature 101, because the Upset Lecturer is a hateful coot), as long as nobody asks about the results – “I will not use materials from this lesson in the examination. However related questions pertaining to general knowledge might appear, and this could be a refresher of the topic for those of you who need it.”
Using a stick of chalk as his weapon against the void, the Soft-Eyed Mycologist proceeds to defile the emptiness of the blackboard. The header and the bullet-points are written too fast to be properly eligible unless you already know what their content is, though.

“One of the most overlooked areas of any work is the fringe, the hybrid cases that surely are someone else’s responsibility, and the naturally repulsive. This course above such mistakes.
A well known hybrid in the mycological practice is lichen. ‘Tis a symbiosis of a fungus or several fungi and algae. On the Surface this is an equal partnership: While the fungus provides a stable position and heterotrophic nutrition, the algae photosynthetises. In the Neath, of course, there is little sunlight to speak of. Virtually the otherwise primitive aquatic green buggers are exploiting the fungal ability to gather resources from decomposition.
In spite of the academic attempts, such as they are, the common laymen populace can hardly differentiate lichens from mosses, so even species discovered in the Neath often bear ‘moss’ in their name.”
You get to hear the names of several species which you’ve seen and perhaps never identified: Mushroom hair which is the long strands that hang in the fungal forests and the mushrooms growing in Bugsby’s Marshes. (The specimen is unremarkable, but edible in case of emergency. You will recognise a case of emergency by trying to eat mushroom hair.) Minor tanglemoss, which looks like dead grass, but responds to touch by rapid growth of sticky strands that will try to trap whatever touched them. Harmless to humans, deadly to Rattus Faber and other small creatures – they starve to death, and the mushroom part of the tanglemoss calls that dinner. Fun fact, the Elder Continent is home to the major tanglemoss which is capable of restraining much larger vertebrae, humans included.
The Roof is home to miser-moss, an arrangement in which the algae is pulling its weight in the parasitic relationship by being bioluminescent in the glim-blue spectrum, while the fungus has evolved spores imitating insect pheromones. Posing as the native fauna of the Roof, this lichen is also actively predatory.

“Moulds are seen as one of man’s greatest enemies. They settle in a slightly damp house and poison the air with their spores. First they drive you mad, then they drive you dead. But the truth is that the majority of moulds are harmless to us and our bodies, while living, easily deflect their attempts to eat us. To our great benefit they proceed to decompose dead tissues, thus we are not knee deep in dead bodies, potato peels nor fungal shavings. Being reminded that we eventually end up in their undiscriminating care is a small price to pay for that.”
With that he lets circulate charcoal drawings of mouldy apples, dry rot on wood and fungal-wood (curiously there the rot forms circular patterns) and several polypores.
“Most moulds are poorly classified and examined. Not many people want to work with them, both on the Surface and the Neath. Not only they are a constant reminder that our own decomposing process is merely postponed, every time anyone sticks one under the microscope, it seems we have discovered a new species.
Take this beauty for example,” he picks up one of the aquariums. Indeed, upon closer inspection it is full of white hair-like mouldy growth. Your teacher’s eyes shine and his smile shows too many teeth for comfort. Well, he is a lecturer of natural sciences and he is talking about a topic close to his heart.
“I’ve had it in my lab and on my table since the end of the summer. I presume it is from the penicillium genus. Provisionally I’ve dubbed it penicillium agnum. I am hoping to find use for it in archiving work, because it is capable of receiving and reproducing information. There are, of course, some kinks to that.”
He picks up one of the remaining gnarled apples and effortlessly slices through its thick skin. Sour juice drips over his fingers and onto the desk where it forms foamy sticky puddles. He throws a slice of the apples into the aquarium he’s picked up before.
A blood-curdling scream of absolute agony fills the air. It is loud, sudden, and it sounds desperate. Clearly it is coming from the tank which seems far too small to hold such a rich and pained baritone. Subtler, but not beyond noticing, is the scent of sandalwood cologne that fills the air. The scream fades into a whisper of pleasepleaseplease before it dies out completely.
The Mycologist, apparently used to thai reaction from the sample, has in the meantime finished cutting up the fruit. He looks at you with a fascination that most would hope would not be directed at them. Definitely not coming from a man with wet hands and a knife.
“I have no idea how it did that. Have a go at it. Take it home with you, if you would so please.”

Comments

Sign In

[tolpen]

Collapsing style, right into the ledge.

Re: Sign In

[theanachronistictailor]

Astonishingly, and even more so for how early they are (before any other individuals arrive), the Anachronistic Tailor signs a name on the ledger. They proceed to the very final row of desks to sit. They do not take an apple.

Re: Sign In

[theubiquitousguest]

The Ubiquitous Guest followed some minutes after, signing a name and taking an apple readily. It didn't take long to find his usual seat, in the middle, towards the back. The Walls Were Right, as they say, and the uncanny nature of the class could be ignored for the sake of getting settled quickly.

Before Class

[tolpen]

There is still time to mingle.

Re: Before Class

[theanachronistictailor]

Far in the back of the classroom, the Anachronistic Tailor sits in a seat in the corner. They are in dark clothes, a mix of grays and blacks. The shadows under their eyes are difficult to ignore, but nothing about their demeanor implies exhaustion. Their hair is in its coif but the curls threaten to escape and are not set back into place.

When they move, it is slow but not sluggish, understated. There’s very little to draw attention to their presence at all.

Every twenty minutes, a handkerchief that was once a stark white in contrast to their ensemble is drawn from their waistcoat, and dabbed only briefly to their left nostril. It was only once a white: now it is spotted with varying reds and browns. Each is only a single spot or smear. Then the handkerchief disappears again. The movement is practiced and the stains numerous enough for one who might be paying attention to gather this is regular and expected now. But then: who is paying attention enough to notice?

Re: Before Class

[the_maven_and_the_devil]

When Maven and Devil walked in, their eyes couldn't help but glance at the Tailor. They had nearly decided not to come, or rather Devil had thought not to come. After what had happened, the risk of some kind of confrontation felt high and not worth it...

But after discussing it, they remembered how they handled it in the summer course. It had been simple to just avoid and ignore. There was also part of Devil that spitefully didn't want to stop coming just because of the Tailor. Felt like the coward thing to do. And besides, it's two more classes. They can handle this.

Still, when his eyes landed on the Tailor, a few emotions passed through his eyes in an instant. The hurt as the memory of the fight returns, concern over how bad they look (how long have they been looking this bad...?), resentment that he was still concerned after everything, anger at them and at himself and everything, the loneliness of missing them, frustration that he did.

All of that... before his expression just went numb. Much like the summer course when the Tailor wanted the Devil to stay away from him and they ran into each other at the Blind Helmsman. All emotion hidden behind a wall.

He took Maven's hand and led her away, no longer looking at the Tailor. He would be making an effort to keep his eyes off them for the rest of class.

Re: Before Class

[theubiquitousguest]

The Ubiquitous Guest gave a kind smile to the Tailor as he found his seat in the row before. They hadn't had a row in the holidays, so there was no baggage or spite. Only mild concern for a fellow classmate, peer, and prospective friend (that one still found unfairly attractive, but that could be silenced with haste). Nothing need change between them.

The Guest hadn't been paying attention when he grabbed the apple, nor when he bit into it. Sour, unexpected for what he thought the apple was. But the juice was seen as the apple was pulled away to inspect. Nothing tasted bad about the apple, but a gag reflex was activated with the sight. He'd had too much rotten food as a kid to trust any fruit that suddenly looked and tasted unfamiliar, especially when it was suddenly misshapen and brown in fluid.

A piece of paper was ripped from his journal and the bite spat into it. All appetite fled him as he considered what to do with the surely rotten and not just genetically modified apple.

Stars, he'll be stuffing down that nausea and gagging memory the rest of class...

Re: Before Class

[the_maven_and_the_devil]

"Hey Mil- Oh!"

Maven and Devil had approached to greet the Guest when they caught sight of the apple and juice. They had apples of their own, but had thankfully not bitten into them yet.

"Oh goodness!"

"Geez, what's wrong with these apples?"

Re: Before Class

[theliedpiper]

Piper looks a little cleaner than usual, just a little bit better dressed, but they're still wearing the same red stockings as ever, so not too much has changed. And their smile is still bright and genuine, which might be doing some heavy lifting on their appearance as well. And are they actually wearing a cologne today? (Yes - they haven't settled on a signature smell yet, but they like testing all the ones Tene makes.)

For the first time in a while, things have been going well, and they really hope that class doesn't change that. (They make a pointed effort not to look at Tailor. If they had, would they have been able to keep their rash promise not to help?) (Are they being too stubborn and prideful in hoping for an apology? Was it their fault after all?)

They're still good at not thinking about things. And they have an apple and a scone to eat. The apple is a little messy, and they wipe their mouth on their sleeve before remembering the handkerchief Silv had insisted they carry. For someone who knew so little about social rules, she was stickler for the ones she could remember.

The scone tastes as good as always. They'll have to thank Maven for it. They haven't seen her much since the party, being busy as they were with work (catching up after being kept from Parabola) and musical practice (they're making this a priority now that Silv is back - they have their dream performance to work towards). They hum the tune they've been practicing under their breath.

If anyone wants to chat before class, they'll be happy to catch up.

Lecture

[tolpen]

Maybe you won't need to take notes if this won't be on the final test.

Re: Lecture

[theanachronistictailor]

The professor of the class begins speaking, and the Tailor leans back in their seat, eyes drifting shut every so often, to let the words wash over them. No notebook today, in fact no bag at all, simply a gloved hand flat against the surface of the desk.

It's hard not to come to the conclusion that the Tailor does not have interest in playing the student today. They don't care for the lichen or the moss or the fungi. All that said, an obligation is an obligation, and they take those quite seriously. They see things through to their natural completion. There is only one class after this, and they will be done.

They'll grant the Mycologist one thing: his voice is pleasant to listen to. Endlessly warm. Passionate about the subjects he actually cares about. His eyes take on new brightness. His smiles grow wide. They try to recall if he ever looks at people that way, then dismiss the notion before it can be allowed to burrow and cause damage into a brain that already nurses the low pulses of an unceasing headache. Here comes the handkerchief again, and there it goes-

Actually... hm. What an interesting specimen hes brought for them today.

Re: Lecture

[theubiquitousguest]

The Guest was paying attention to the class, hoping that focusing on that would help him stuff down his nausea and keep him centered. That is, until the puddle of apple juice in a deepening, putrid brown began to pool and touched the corner of his notes, just starting to soak into the pages before the Guest could yank the notes away. He took his scarf and hurriedly tried to stifle the ongoing bleeding of the apple. It kept weeping less like a bitten fruit and more like a bleeding wound, like there was an unseen organ somewhere in the fruit that pumped the juices out quicker and further. The rapidly rotting nature of the apple deepened the color of the juice into something putrid and approaching black.

He'd just barely gotten the fruit to stop when the pleas erupted from the mould. Good lord, was the Guest inside a nightmare? What was this class!?

Activity

[tolpen]

Go on. Interact with the mould. It surely has to be friendly!

Re: Activity

[theanachronistictailor]

The Tailor approaches the cart, examining the fishbowls with some detached interest. They pick one up to take back to their desk, but not before they ask the Mycologist a question, their first and likely only interaction with him for the evening:

"I'm presuming these are bits from a single originating body. Any knowledge as of yet if the information received by the separate parts could be transmitted or saved to the origin a la a Blemmigan to the Uttershroom, or will each be individual hosts to the information imparted?" It's not a mushroom, after all, not like the example mentioned, but it's a fungus capable of some level of data transmitting, if only auditory.

Re: Activity

[tolpen]

"As far as my knowledge goes, once split, the two colonies do not share information. If reunited, they slowly assimilate. There is a duration in this process when they form two poles, but within a couple of hours it is one homogenous mass retaining the database of both." The answer is spat without any hesitation. It has been tested. Thoroughly, in varying conditions.

(Do not ask. Do not get involved. Remember how well that went the last time. And the time before that. Nobody wants you involved.)

Re: Activity

[theubiquitousguest]

The Ubiquitous Guest quailed at the sound of his classmates and their work. He’d retrieved one of the bowls, yes, but his hands had hardly touched it since they had set it down on the desk. He kept such limbs occupied by trying to mop up the brown fluid of the apple he’d bitten, bleeding darker and darker from a rotten brown to now almost black. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the mould, trembling. Just what was that thing?

He took up the handkerchief he used to mop up the apple blood and squeezed a drop into the bowl. Just as it had with the Mycologist, the mould wailed in a deep baritone, though somewhat quieter when not given a whole slice. At least it was consistent.

The Guest looked down at his mould in its solitary bowl, trying not to let his heart quiver. As a hunter, he always had his knife handy. He was unused to using it on himself. He was not the prey, but… maybe he could give up his throne as predator for merely a moment. Just long enough to understand what the mould wanted. He sliced a little into the tip of his pinky, easily sacrificed, and watched it drip into the mould and disappear into the fuzzy white. His mould, fed on his blood, gave weak sobs and wordless pleas, sounding like a tyke, a child, a young man, his current self, and his other all in one, quietly crying in a chorus that turned whispers into a cacophony. His face twisted in nausea, but he swallowed it down.

He was content to leave it alone until he attempted to put away his knife. Out of his bag tumbled the pair of steel sewing scissors, clattering to the desk. He’d tried blood… And he already hurt… “How much worse of a sacrifice could meat be?”

He hadn’t realized he said this aloud.

The Guest rolled up his sleeve until one of his deep, angry scars was exposed. He found a loose corner and braced as he gave it the barest, tiniest snip.

The miniscule piece of flesh fell into the bowl along with a drop of blood and the classroom suddenly rang with his own, agonized screams. ITBURNSITBURNSMAKEITSTOP, it shrieked, but the Guest… heard something else. He scrambled to open his personal notebook to the correct page and wrote down what he heard. It was in a scribble of Irish and personal prose, turning what should have been a clear translation into prose of a shade so violet that it put kings of the world to shame, obfuscating the meaning just as much as the language it was first written in.

Another snip, another round of PLEASEPLEASESTOPITBURNSSTOPI’MSORRY, another set of notes hastily scribbled in a mad haze as the Guest bled over himself and his work. He did this three more times, his hands curling to claw at the bleeding arm to either stifle the blood or encourage its drip, before pausing, coming to a realization.

“I know how to find out who…”

The Guest ripped open the top buttons of his shirt with the grip of a monster with its hands around its prey’s throat. He exposed the sigil of Correspondence on his chest, finding a loose corner with a blind hand and hastily, carelessly snipping at the raw flesh, leaned over the bowl to let the skin fall into the mould. The poor thing erupted into an animalistic scream that could’ve shattered weaker glass, perhaps hurting any ears close enough to hear, the man above it left with blood dripping down either side of his jaw. The shriek was familiar to certain individuals in the room. It tasted like soot and ash and fire and sounded like satin being ripped and torn without mercy, squeaky and gritty and rending and slicing through the air like nothing.

And it gives Milo nothing. No whispers under the scream, no meaning, no clarity.

He gripped the sides of the bowl, leaned over and trying to bleed into the mould more. “No, no, no, please! I almost had it! Please! Who did this to me!? Cé a rinne seo dom!? CÉ A RINNE SEO DOM!?” He would likely have to be pulled off of his mould by force, giving trembling sobs not unlike his mould’s reaction to his first drop of blood.

Re: Activity

[the_maven_and_the_devil]

Maven and Devil had briefly stepped out of the class to discuss what to do for the activity, Milo's situation had escaped the Maven and Devil notice at first. When they got back, they found Milo bleeding over his mould and yelling. They both ran over, Maven grabbing her bag full of medical supplies on the way over and Devil grabbing Milo once he got there, "The FUCK are you doing?!"

Re: Activity

[ticktopis_observatorium]

So, if their ears didn't fail them, the very Lamb has been brought to class and not only has it been freely given to experiment with during the lesson but also can be taken home?! Each one?! Oh, the day has suddenly improved immensely! They wish they could see their own Lamb cutting properly, but their eyes are still growing back home, curse the lack of preparation...

No matter. Here's a Lamb of their own! They're so very tempted to reach and pet it, but it's better not to do so with an all-eating mould who then speaks with the meal's own voice (¡!) and very likely about what the aforementioned is saying right now (¡¡!!) or said in its last moments (¡¡¡!!!). So instead they proceed a little more carefully in this first contact.

How about a loose strand of their clothes? There it goes... Oh. Ow. Ouch... Yeah it- It doesn't sound pleasant to be split and woven against your will. Oh! The pencil's graphite? Just cutting a little bit and... Oh. Whoa... Minerals truly speak and feel slowly. Is it still protesting about how fast the chipping is going? The two syllabes the Lamb provided could be interpretable. Very well, how about a cutting of the eraser? Good old caoutchouc... Ah! A pleased sigh from the Professor once confirmed resin still behaves like blood, meant to be spilled and thus not necessarily suffering from it. The posterior processing is a whole different story though. This is magnificent! Where did this little creature come from? Oh! New idea.

Very carefully, the Professor takes a little thread of their own blindfold and it is given to the Lamb. It takes a while to process it, which is already surprising. Palesilk must certainly be resistent, or perhaps leave little nutritional content. But if that's the case, why do their little lovelies eat it back when they no longer have need for it? Oh! Now it's starting to deca-

Where has my Weaver of Roads and Doors taken me? What is this creature I see? Why so far away, in the dark, where the enemy can't be reached, nor reach back?

The voice could come from the Lamb, but the Professor was feeling it piercing straight through their eye sockets, like thought-thin ice needles being shot from the inner side of their blindfold, and booming inside their skull. All of this surrounded by countless begging screams and, even worse, apathetic wails from frozen, forgotten souls of the Failed Dead far into the beyond...

The trance is broken mercifully quick, moment in which all air abandons the Professor's lungs together with one or two pieces of their soul in the form of a deep sigh. Noting not to ever do that again unprepared, and placing the lid back on top of the Lamb's enclosure, they pat it idly and talk to it.

"You definitely are one of the preciousest most beautiful wonders this world could have birthed, little The Lamb. We're going to have so much fun together..."

They'll like to ask questions. But those can wait until they're feeling socially recharged somewhere in the future.

After Class

[tolpen]

Time to talk to- ah, the teacher has fled to his office to get something to alleviate his headache.
Well, there is still everyone else left here.

Re: After Class

[theanachronistictailor]

First to arrive to class, the Tailor is also the first to attempt to depart (after the Mycologist, that is). They've no bags to pack, no notes to put away. The handkerchief, spotted with dark browns and deep reds, is left draped atop the mouth of the bowl in which the mould is kept. It's gone quiet. Probably if it were given the cloth, it would start up its wailing again.

They look at it with disinterest, and then leave it on the desk to depart for the door. Why would they want a screaming mould, anyway?

Re: After Class

[the_maven_and_the_devil]

Maven noticed the Tailor leaving. There was something she'd been considering doing, but was still mulling over. Upon seeing them leave though, she decided to take the chance.

While Devil was busy talking with Milo, she approached the Tailor, "Wait, Tailor? Can I please have a moment, I just wanted to say something quickly before you go."

Re: After Class

[ticktopis_observatorium]

Playing with the Lamb was fun! But sadly, there is only that much time in a class, and the little dear can be taken home! This is definitely a joyous day, the Professor leaves their seat humming a cheery song and all.

OOC

[tolpen]

Greetings and slutations,[1] for now we have survived the winter (northern hemisphere) and summer (southern hemisphere). I for one have enough of seeing any family. Actually, trudging through the darkest days, I think I am out of all happy whatever-ines that are supposed to make the brain get up and do stuff.

Anyway, in spite of that, there is still class today. If you excuse me, I am going to do something about the lack of edible food in this household.

Please be nice to the Lamb, which is what the mould is named.

[1]Editor's note: That's like salutations, but with no shirt on.

Re: OOC

[theanachronistictailor]

I love the Lamb. You made it to the penultimate class!!

Re: OOC

[tolpen]

Imporrtant to note: Go ham with interacting with the Lamb, that is to say the porly identified mould. Get weird with it. I encourage you go weird and maybe nauseatignly upsetting with it. If there was ever a non-sentient fungus that could draw the card A Voice From The Well and click on the Don't Click This Button, it would be the Lamb. If there was ever a fungus that would rapidly eat a lock fo your hair only to proceed to scream in agony and plead for mercy in your voice, it would be the Lamb. If there was ever a fungus who would have a sample fo your packed away lunch so that it could forever remind you that your accomplishments are impermanent and your actions are doomed to failure, it would be the Lamb.

(Also feel free to get weird with the apples. I am having fun getting weird with the apples.)