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

With an ear tuned best as it could be to the door at the front of the room, and personal notebook already in hand, by the time their professor had entered the room the Tailor was already taking notes.

(The handwriting was still untidy and the text itself was cryptic and appeared to be shorthand. Some of it was. More information was likely to be gleaned from the left-hand page, series of sketches of articles clothing and their theorized constructions. If one was inclined to look round the room and use their brain, they'd quickly realize these sketches were quick reproductions of what some of the other people in attendance were wearing.)

While the professor in question was no stranger to the Tailor by name, there had never been a formal space in which the both of them had been in attendance. The Academic was a client of their employer--the Tailor had watched their master draft and cut patterns for the esteemed individual's wardrobe and their more experienced colleagues craft the garments. At most, the Tailor had had the privilege of wrapping and delivering some of the finished works to the door, handing them to the servants, before exiting the Bazaar and crossing to the side streets where the shop was, by rooftop, as was their habit.

It had been on rooftop that they had seen the Academic first, and from above, the Emissary was still striking--but the effect was quite different when one was seated and their professor dwarfed them. Include the intensity of the blaze, quick and hot and just as instantly gone, and the student could see why, now, their master was so demanding about the quality of the work, why he did not allow someone still somewhat green to have a hand in the crafting. Any flaw could be cause for destruction, in a number of ways the Academic might see fit.

Soon they would learn that Correspondence was similar, saved that the destruction was singular and literal. For emphasis, across from their shorthand, they drew a flame. After a thought, they added a mushroom as the object being burned.

They attempted not to snort at the example made of the atomizer, failed terribly, and finally closed their little book to turn the the assignment. Goggles on, for lines, of all things.

From:

theexdisgracedacademic

Within a normal social setting, The Academic knew better than to make others feel too uncomfortably aware that they were being watched. But to be scrutinized and graded- as one would a cut of fabric or meat- was the point here. And so it was that as their eye passed over each student in turn, they made no effort at all to curb the sharpness of their glare.

As they reached the Tailor, the corner of their mouth twisted into a frown. The Academic rarely forgot a face, but it was the nature of London's social classes for those of loftier position to slowly become blind to the presence of those beneath them. Social status be d__ned, the volatility of London's eldritch occurrences meant that fortunes could turn on a sixpence. Today's waitstaff could be tomorrow's darlings of the stage, and while one needn't bow and scrape to every passerby, it did behoove The Academic to remember basic information.

Of course, this did mean that as The Academic attempted to recall there the devil they'd seen the Tailor, they maintained unbroken, glaring eye-contact, as though incensed by some past and unknown slight.

The uncomfortably long moment stretched on.

From:

theanachronistictailor

The feeling of being watched, being examined for weakness or flaw--this was a familiar one to the Tailor. They'd passed the point where their master checked every cut and stitch half a year ago, and earlier than that there'd been the scrutiny of children, and of adults, and of the barrister, and of many, many others.

This was to say nothing of the way predators watched those they suspected to be prey. Hunting had taught them what it felt like to be watched by those creatures. It was only a slightly different sensation, but one could learn to tell the difference. Which was why it was jarring to feel this second type of sensation, to look up, and to meet the eye of their esteemed professor.

The Tailor did not blink, because experience had taught them not to blink in the face of that second type of stare (a blink is all it would take for teeth to be at throat) but their shoulders did tense. The Academic's expression was bordering on hostile. Oh good, their professor had decided to hate them on sight. This was shaping up to be an excellent first day of class, wasn't it? Fantastic.

Instinct kept them from breaking eye contact, so peligin stayed locked on the single exposed eye, before the Tailor said, in a voice that was far too light, "Professor, I couldn't help noticing there isn't an atomizer by the podium. What will you do if the board catches fire? Have we got--Excuse me, do someone have permission to douse you?"

It was meant to be a joke first, and an excuse for the Academic to look to the front of the class second to break the thread of tension. Someone else to aim the ire at, preferably. Oh, what had they done to get on the professor's bad side so immediately?

From:

theexdisgracedacademic

For reference, let us assume for a moment that the reader is looking at a picture of a black-feathered corvid. One cannot be certain whether it is a crow or a raven, until a second picture is produced. For ravens, naturally, are of a size so much larger and more striking than crows, that any of us might laugh, and call ourselves silly for having made the mistake in the first place.

In much the same way, it might be understood that the Academic's prior expression was not one of annoyance or vindictiveness. The Academic hadn't been cross with The Tailor, at all!

Now The Academic was mad at them.

"I cannot imagine a situation which would call for that kind of behavior." They tilted their head, speaking very slowly. "Can you?"

There was an upward lilt, as though that last sentence had been a question. But the room suddenly felt very cold indeed. Was that your breath in front of your face? Surely not! Still, there is the distinct impression that you haven't been asked a question, at all.

From:

theanachronistictailor

Well, if they hadn't known before what could have done it, now the Tailor could know with real confidence it was their own stupid tongue that had done the job. What an excellent job all around, full marks.

They had the decency to at least not stumble over their own tongue, to not try to forcibly self correct. It would only make the humiliation worse, really. But the student was certain of the color rising to their cheeks despite all attempts to stop the reaction, even as they kept eye contact. They still hadn't broken eye contact.

"I suppose I can't imagine one so exceptional would make such a basic error. That's the sort of thing a student with no experience or self-control would do." An idiot like them, that was to say. "I'd like to have even half the level of control you must have to not be so foolish. I imagine there's only so much lenience for that kind of thing here. Besides the dousing."

(In other words? I'm sorry I'm an idiot, I'll not do it again.)

Something in their jaw tightened, and they forced themself to break the eye contact despite the instinct still screaming they were being hunted. If they attempted contrition and meekness, would it make any difference? In any case, they had work to do.

From:

theexdisgracedacademic

As though a switch had been flipped on an electric light, the chill in the Academic’s demeanor warmed to a pleasantly cheery temperature.

The Academic waved away the slight. “Now, now, there’s no need to worry so. You obviously have a keen desire to ensure classroom safety, and we mustn’t take it for granted.”

The Tailor’s instincts were solid. The Academic’s ego was bruised easily, but soothed nearly as quickly. It didn’t make them particularly kind, but it did establish a set of conditions for staying on The Academic’s good side:

Sass was expensive. Contrition and groveling could get you very far, and the roof was the limit, as far as flattery. It could even expunge the past, and the Academic shrugged off the offense with the sort of grace only allowed to those fully assured of iron-fisted control over their surroundings.

From:

theanachronistictailor

The Tailor kept their head down, but their eyes flicked up to assess their professor's shift in tone, and they took note of the lesson already being provided to them so freely. This individual, which still felt in so many ways like a monster but in others looked and felt like a man, was a prideful one. They liked to feel powerful, and there was a power to be had in the position of professor over students.

(Though that did beg the question as to why they had been so reticent to teach the class... Was it truly so simple as having better things to do? The wealthy rarely did.)

If one played into that assumed power structure, the Tailor wondered, how far could one get with this person?

(And why had the instructor been staring at them so intently to begin with?)

But that was a lesson for another time. For now, there was an assignment. To work.