benthic_university | Correspondence Scholarship, Class One [Tuesday Morning, June 10th]

It took a while to find the classroom. The halls of Benthic were in turns stately and wild, and to catch snippets of conversation is to risk getting drawn into conversation (risky), or someone else's research project (perilous in the extreme). The little slip of paper with the classroom listing was even worse. The number didn't relate to any floor or door, and those that managed to get their nerves up enough to ask for help were treated to scornful chuckles.

"I knew that class was one big prank," chortled a passing member of the Stoats' Club, "even ol' Percy Winship-Widgon wouldn't fall for it, and he's only got half a lobe left to spare!"

As the starting hour for the class drew closer, and whispering doubts threatened to increase in volume, something important clicked into place. The classroom number might not exist on the walls of the building. But it did correspond to the table of contents in one of the many volumes of required reading. And that pointed to a section that referenced a paper that was also in the course materials, a seemingly unrelated architectural discussion of Benthic's construction…

Ah. The dome at the top of the building. Most students hadn't known that there was a room there. Had there ever been a room there?

Regardless. Members of the class made their way higher and deeper into the center of the great structure, and finally came upon a door, labeled with a lead plaque, and the numbers for the much-sought classroom. To squint at it, one would notice the numbers going funny for a moment. Perhaps they didn't look the same to other people. Though to look around, each member of the class would have noticed that they'd made the trek alone. There were no other people to see these numbers.

The room itself was too big for such a small class; three rows of university benches with shelf desks sat in the middle, facing a lecturing podium and a freestanding chalkboard. There were at least four independent layers to the board, and it wrapped a semi-circle around the benches, closing the space off into a much less agoraphobic classroom area.

Atop each bench were sets of goggles, and several silver atomizers. Atop the lecturing podium was a congratulatory fungal bouquet. If your fungiography isn't too rusty, those were ink-caps for success in scholarly ventures, amanita virosa for permanent consequences, and false-blemmigans to wrap the entire thing in a fantastically sarcastic tone of voice.

Class hadn't started yet, and the professor was absent. Students had a little time to introduce themselves to the others.

Was it true that if the professor arrived late, everyone was allowed to go? Surely it couldn't be, in a university setting. But whether it was mis or good fortune, there came the sound of yelling from the hallway.

The voice was a very unpleasant one. In some, it might've inspired fear. But any ear could detect an uncanny edge to the high timbre. "-certain that you could find a last-minute replacement!"

"There aren't any others with your qualifications!" The second speaker's voice had a posh, Etonian lilt, and though he'd raised his volume, his emotions weren't half as compromised. He seemed patient, bordering on amused. "I promised to attempt to find another professor, but it's a very delicate matter-"

"What nonsense!"

"As you say."

"Absolute rot!"

"Indeed."

A sigh. "It's in here, is it?"

"Yes."

A louder, more beleaguered sigh. "Don't think that this is the end of this. We'll speak later."

"Good fortune and happy teaching."

"The next living creature to wish me that is going to learn their first lesson, and it'll be a keen one, I'll have you know that!"

Somewhere behind the chalkboard, a door slammed, and a pair of heeled boots tapped quickly toward the students. Then, a billowing silhouette of opulent white fabric rounded the corner, as their professor strode into view. Threatening a height of seven feet and staring from behind a semiotic monocle and a shock of gray hair, The Ex-Disgraced Academic all but stomped over to the lectern. Their eye seized upon the fungal bouquet, and their long, clawed fingers seized upon the accompanying card. With two passes of a roving eye, they found immense displeasure with whatever was written. They removed a pen from their breast pocket, scribbled something onto the paper.

Then, the entire bouquet went up in sudden, twenty-foot flames, nearly high enough to singe the domed ceiling above them.

As the welcome gift quickly reduced itself to ashes, The Academic took chalk to chalkboard, and addressed the class.

a figure at a chalkboard

“Well! You’ve all successfully found yourselves in Benthic’s 1899 summer course on The Correspondence. I will be your Professor-” and here, chalk tapping, The Ex-Disgraced Academic wrote their full name on the board. It was a distinguished and somewhat melodic arrangement of syllables, as instantly memorable to the students as it was illegible to their players. “But you may all conform to the decency of good manners, and either refer to me as ‘Professor,’ or ‘Emissary.’”

This second title, they underlined twice, with great relish. “It would happen to be this duty upon which I ought to be spending my time focusing. Vital matters across the sea and on the roof wait for no man. But the Dean is currently embroiled in a-“ the Academic scrawled the words:

PHALLUS-MEASURING-CONTEST

“-with members of the Ministry of Public Decency, and this class is the result!”

It was only at this point that The Academic turned around, to actually look at their students. The sneer wasn't a particularly kind reaction. “The study of this language is only nominally legal. I have been given impeccably strict definitions as to the limits of what may be taught in this class. Which brings us to the prerequisites before we begin The Correspondence in earnest:”

The Academic waved a gloved hand, signalling all the nerds of the class to open their note-books and begin the note-taking.

“Safety Precaution the First: A law is only a law if it is enforceable! Thus, you are highly advised to keep your course notes under lock and key. Anything you learn here might be made retroactively illegal.”

“Safety Precaution the Second! Correspondence symbols are highly flammable! The more flammable the surface, the fewer symbols a material can hold before combusting. Lead can hold precisely seven symbols. So imagine how careful you will have to be with untreated paper.

“Safety Precaution the Third! The threat will come for you-“ the next words rendered in large, block letters, “-IN THE NIGHT. If your housing is anywhere near a sorrow-spider clutch, start sleeping with an eye mask, as well. No more counting on your roommate in the lower bunk to have their eyes taken first: the study of The Correspondence will make your eyeballs like catnip to the sorry scoundrels.”

“And that brings us to the last and greatest peril to your freshly opened eyes. Safety Precaution the Fourth: When practicing, from now on, you will always wear your goggles. It doesn’t matter whether you are crafting poetry or practicing penmanship. You never write a stroke without eye protection, because you are always one mis-stroke away from permanent injury.” The Academic tapped a claw along the edge of their Semiotic Monocle. "I never take mine off. Easily solved."

The Academic tossed the chalk aside, and returned to the lectern.

“Today will be a warm-up. Practice writing sentences in English with no more than four words. One sentence per page, and do not use the back. I want twenty sentences from each student by the end of the period. If you notice another student writing a fifth word on any paper…” The Academic picked up the nearest atomizer, regarded the smoldering wreck of the bouquet…

…and then let loose on the nearest student; spraying water from the atomizer straight into their face.

“…douse them.”

The Academic placed the bottle back down, careless and casual as though they'd done no more than continue talking. "Get to it!"

As the class drew to a close, not a single eye was watching the clock more closely than the unblinking pupil of the professor. The second hand hit twelve, and they were to their feet.

“Well? Off with you! Haven’t you anywhere better to be? I certainly do.”

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

theanachronistictailor

The Tailor clicked their tongue, not in a dismissive tone but with the air of regret for lack of a better answer. "I know some fragments, old childhood rhymes and songs that I later learned had some meanings embedded, but unfortunately, not much of real substance. From what I understand, it's as old as the Neath, if not older. And it's literal, if I remember rightly. At least, I think it is?"

If there was anything in the small book that might have made sense to Thursday, it was the left-hand side; sketches of clothing that could feasibly be identified around the room. But they closed the little book with their left hand, the pencil tucked into it.

"I don't have a terrible attachment to names. I'm a Tailor, don't worry about remembering anything more. The beetle was very pretty, though not any kind I know. A surface species?" And then the Tailor added, lightly as to not cause a fuss, "Or I could leave you to your own notes on our classmates. Unless you're willing to exchange first impressions."

From:

the_dye_stained_socialite

"Oh, damn, that's..." Thursday waggled her fingers, and raised her eyebrows. "I don't know a lot myself, I found this stone and it was a whole ordeal, and-" she searched through the pile on her desk, clearly looking for said stone, and when she didn't find it, she turned to rummage through her empty carpet bag. "Fuck. Thought I brought it. guess not." She closed the bag again, and returned it to the floor. "Well, I only just found out about it myself, and considering how much of a bastard it was to get a stone that I left at home, I figured this class would be uh... easier. Maybe?" Notably, she didn't say why she wants to learn.

If the Pawn got a glance before the book closed, it was uncertain, but unlikely.

Thursday's entire demeanor brightened when their new acquaintance brought up their beetle drawing. They sat straighter, their eyes went wide, and one of their hands tapped a tattoo on their desk. "Oh!" They looked from their notes, which, yes, were about the other students, to the drawing of the beetle, and decided on the beetle. "Well, uhm, Tailor... I think my notes can wait!" They pulled out the paper scrap and slid it close to the Tailor. "This is a Tansy Beetle! They wouldn't really survive down here no, they eat and live around the tansy plant, and I haven't seen shit for tansy-growing down here. They're really pretty though, right? They don't actually fly all that much, their muscles degrade after their first winter, but they still keep their elytra. I kinda miss seeing 'em, you know?" They sigh, and their hand stills. "Have you seen any interesting beetles down here? Er, no, wait, that's not how conversations go. You're uhm... a tailor." Thursday pulls their pin from their hat, and begins to fidget with it. "Do you... what's it like?"

In their beetle-induced excitement, Thursday had entirely forgotten to introduce themself.

From:

theanachronistictailor

The Tailor plucked the little square of paper off the desk, examining it as their classmate spoke. They didn't pretend to know much about bugs, much less those from the surface, but the illustration was detailed, the work of someone who cared a lot about the subject in question. Another one from the Surface, then.

"Regarding beetles, I can't say I know much about them, though you'll find the phosfo.... phosferesnt..." they tried not to scowl, "the glow beetles down here are exceptionally common. I'm not overly fond myself, but I've seen their wing cases used for the more impressive gowns they would wear at court." It was very like them, to point subject back to how it would relate to their work.

They examined the pin their companion fiddled with from the corner of their eye, notched brow raising. "As for being a craftsman... It's long hours making work that stands out while needing to make it look effortless. It's--" they thought for a moment, staring hard at the sketch, before handing it back. "On the one hand, I think I'd compare it to learning a language. Style is important, especially in London. Rules of etiquette that have changed little by little over the years, and if you break those rules it draws attention, good or bad. On the other hand, the labor itself is about construction, and there's a satisfaction I find when the pieces all fit together to make one cohesive article. I'm not sure how much you know about the work that goes into your clothes."

This was to say nothing about what cuts of fashion could mean, what they could imply about the age of the wearer or the company they kept or their status in society--but the Tailor was trying to be concise. Trying, anyway.

"It's culture. Right now I'm stuck with convention as to what I make, but I'd like to shape culture myself. Anachronism is, I think, fascinating. I'm trying to take it as part of my moniker. An aspiring Anachronistic Tailor."

They blinked. When had they started to stare into the middle distance? They didn't shake their head to clear it, but it was a near thing.

"And yourself? What do you call yourself, in company?"

From:

the_dye_stained_socialite

Thursday watched the tailor keenly while they held his art, waiting if they did anything.

"Oh, the phosphorescent scarabs are beautiful! I've been thinking about catching a few, setting up something..." they trailed off, momentarily distracted. There was a smile when she took the beetle art back. Then there was a frown. "Oh, I don't uh, you know, I don't really... enjoy court? Everyone's so posh, and for as much as they ride horses, I don't think any of them have ever helped to shuck a damn stable and clean up after the horses." Her face became redder and redder with each word, and she was dangerously close to stabbing someone with her pin and wild hand-waving. "I may not know about the process of clothes themselves, but I know labour, and I believe how much effort that takes, and augh I can't stand being around so many people who don't get they get to live their happy little lives on the backs of the rest of us!" Thursday flung their arms out in anger.Bang! A journal hit the floor, and the anarchist yelped! "Shit, shit, sorry, shit-" The fallen book was quickly grabbed, and put back on their desk. Luckily, it seemed the scare had snapped them from their reverie.

"But uh.. beetle wing dresses was it? That does sound... pretty. As- as long as they're not taking too many? Fuck." That may have been jealousy which crept into their tone. They'd never admit it, but they weren't subtle. "I think trying to shape culture itself is ambitious, but damn, do you think you can? Hell, if you find out how, let me know, yea? Anachronism... anarchy and chrono, without the rule of... time? That's another one of those thing's that 'wrong' down here, I think. Or you've all got your calendars wrong from the rest of the up there" With this, they jabbed at thumb at the ceiling, or, more correctly, the Ceiling. "Do you want to make things from the past?"

"Hm? Well, I just call m'self Thursday, but I guess others have a different name for me. Funny thing down here, not used to it. They call me uh, the uhm, 'The Portentous Pawn'. Damned if I know what the hell they mean by it, though."

From:

theanachronistictailor

"Not anarchy," the Tailor muttered to themself, "why does everyone always mistake it for anarchy, for god's sake--" They grit their teeth, lips pressed together in a thin line, but didn't express any further irritation. "The other Cities, for a start. Things from before the Fall, if I can get my hands on them. But not just the past, if I can help it." The subject was complicated. Now was probably not the best time to get into it. How do you explain dreams, anyway?

They didn't know what portentous meant, but if the emotional outburst was any indication... it couldn't mean anything good. The Tailor was not a fan of revolutionaries. Oh, they tolerated them, and understood the ideas of the oppressed throwing off the shackles, and all that tosh, and the Tailor was deeply disdainful of the upper class and its pretense themself, but all the loud proclamations rang exceptionally hollow to the Tailor, who--well. Let's just say no self-proclaimed anarchist had ever offered a helping hand to them.

(Also the blasted fools kept trying to commission them to burn down warehouses full of fabric. Come on.)

"Well, Thursday, you can always change the term people use with time and work. As for the beetles, if you make your way to Esoteric Cryptozoologists on campus, you'll find they use quite a lot of them. So many, in fact, they easily lose track of the number. If you did want to collect a few, there's a good place to start."

They'd closed off, just a touch, and here they returned to their book to notate. Sorry Thursday, it isn't anything personal.

From:

the_dye_stained_socialite

"Other Cities? I, oh, hum." Thursday noted the little expressed irritation quite well. Their attitude became sullen in turn.

"Cryptozoologists, yes, maybe I'll look into that." They gave no further response, nor did they write anything further in their journal. Another failed connection, and they weren'teven entirely certain where it had failed. They could guess though. Yes, they would pick a different seat next week.

Thursday carefully moved their items firmly onto their own desk, and distracted themself with organizing it all.

ooc: sorry for the short response, wanted to make certain you got.something before i head to bed and we move to next week!