benthic_university | Correspondence Scholarship, Class Two [Tuesday Morning, June 17th]

Correspondence Scholarship, Class Two [Tuesday Morning, June 17th]

When the students arrived to their domed classroom, there was a broad-shouldered clay man standing before them. A pair of goggles were awkwardly affixed to her face. The hour to begin arrived, but no other tutor came with it.

The Clay Substitute laid her hands upon the podium. "PLEASE. OPEN YOUR TEXTBOOKS TO PAGE-"

Much the same as last week, there was a hubbub in the hall outside. The door slammed open, and one figure marched another to the front of the class. The Beleaguered Dean, swathed in a coat of thick tweed and a thicker coat of nervous sweat, was all but pushing The Ex-Disgraced Academic back into their pace behind the podium.

The Academic wasn't missing a beat in the argument: "-can't at all see what the issue is, so long as they learn the material-"

"You cannot offload your duties to an Underclay aspirant!" The Dean's fury is only matched by the fearful tension in his voice, "And an unfinished one at that! How did you get it up here-"

The Academic's eye widened in almost-honorable affront. "You can't prove that this perfectly capable worker is unfinished, can you?"

"No, but I can certainly prove that it's not on the faculty list." The Dean wiped his brow. "Get on with it, man!"

The Clay Substitute barely moved, but the grinding of her turning head rumbled through the floor. "I WAS TOLD THAT I WOULD BE PAID IN FULL, REGARDLESS OF HOW LONG CLASS WENT?"

Coin was exchanged, and, the Dean ushered The Clay Substitute out of the room. The Academic hissed through their teeth, clearly ready to vent their terrible mood at the first faces to cross theirs.

They turned to look at the class. And smiled a terrible smile. "Good morning."

Targets acquired.

"So! You've all decided to return for a second week. I suppose it can't be helped. Any damage you incur from here on out is upon your own heads." They began their lecture.

“English is a phonographic language, as the distinct letters of the alphabet each represent units of sound. The Correspondence is logographic, meaning that similar to the languages of the second and fourth cities (and the Khanate, of course), Correspondence Symbols each represent units of meaning.”

In bold, rapid strokes, The Academic scrawled a symbol onto the chalkboard:

They whirled around, pointing an accusing claw at anyone unfortunate enough to still be moving their pens. “Do not copy this into your notes! If you fancy yourself cheeky and attempt to copy it whilst my back is turned, I will still know, so do NOT try me.” They turned back, circling the image. Anyone foolhardy enough to ignore the command would earn immediate combustion to their notebook, and a quick, scathing look of satisfaction from The Academic.

“This is the symbol for “an unmappable direction. It is one of the more frequent symbols to be found in practical human application of The Correspondence, as well as in architectural engravings ranging from first city ruins all the way up to lapsarian London. It is also exceptionally flammable. None but the most expensive of papers can contain it.” And with a terrifically wicked smile: "Chalkboards are fine, though."

They continued. “The Correspondence is a purely semiotic construct. There are currently no known pronunciations or verbal applications for these signs-“ The Academic covered a bark of laughter, and then continued, “-apologies, but I would hate for my lectures to contradict the well-documented research that the Ministry of Public Decency has gently requested I adhere to."

The Academic pushed their current chalkboard up and out of the way, revealing an unblemished second layer. They added a tidy column of six simple symbols. "There are one hundred and eight basic radicals, and we've discovered twice as many in total. But for this course, we will begin with six."

Six symbols

And, after writing these on the board, the academic turned to the students. “These you may record in your notes, however-“ their tone sharpened, slicing through the momentum of those who may have rushed to begin- “confine each radical to its own sheet for practice. None of these, alone, is a complete symbol. But some can be converted very easily into real Correspondence symbols, and it is vital that you do not accidentally do so. Spend the rest of today's duration memorizing and practicing these radicals until you can reproduce them by heart. You'll know if you're doing well, because you paper will become warm to the touch once half-full. I will also be writing additional complete correspondence symbols on the other chalkboards. Your homework is to discern which of these six parts of speech each of the symbols is.”

symbols

The Academic pointed once more at the spray bottles on each row of desks. “At any sign of smoke, you are to douse the offending student’s work, without hesitation. Last week was not a one-off exercise. Consider this both a basic safety precaution, as well as your first taste of operant conditioning. Get to it!”

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It took the Morbid Socialite a solid minute to realize there was an unfamiliar form at the head of the class. Already frazzled from the rush to be on time, they didn't take the time to respond in earnest to the Clay substitute, only peering around at their other classmates to judge their reactions. As varied as they were, the best course of response seemed to be acceptance. This was, of course, a normal and fine occurrence. Why would it not be? The Socialite had, of course, worked with the Clay Men before and was no stranger to the sight of them. It was somewhat easy to accept that the Academic had abandoned the class and left the Clay Substitute in their stead. They did seem eager to leave them behind the lesson previous and more than eager to leave them stranded entirely that morning.

Rather than question the new set of circumstances, the Morbid Socialite focused on reviewing the notes from the lesson prior.

Ah! There is someone who looks like they're here to learn, being late not withstanding. At least they had their head in notes they could copy.

"Oi lov' ya got some spare paper with last week's notes, fraid that with the rate she mustiv been going, I didn't catch a lick"

The Morbid Socialite was confused for a moment, stuck on the use of 'she'. Had the Ex-Disgraced Academic suddenly changed pronouns over the week. It wouldn't be uncommon in the Neath for someone to be a gent one day and a lady the next, but that didn't seem to be the Academic's speed. It took them a while to catch up and realize that this new face wasn't, in fact, there for the last lesson and believed the Clay Substitute before them to have been the Professor the entire time. He debated the idea of calling the individual out on such a blunder, but thought it kinder to let the Mechanic believe he bought the lie.

"If you'll lend me a moment, I may transcribe them for you to use." In truth, his notes were all written in a rather recent version of shorthand, needing translation for many people to be able to read. It was remarkable how the original notes differed from the copy, but they contained the exact same information. The Socialite handed the copy over with a kind smile.

"Cheers lov, does make for a convenience to me! was worried about readin' my own chicken scrach, glad to see that I ain't the only one who can use a little more in the penmanship departments"

The Mechanic gives the socialite a nod of it's goggles in thanks as it goes to take the notes, "What's ya interest in the ol' language, the name's..." it say's it's name, short and sweet and kinda creamy

Deciding to ignore the derision of his penmanship and instead focus on the latter half of the return in conversation, the Morbid Socialite gave a small nod, without the room for a more courteous bow. They gave their name- something dark and perhaps foreign, perhaps self-chosen- and held out a hand, hesitantly believing for a moment that giving a name might not be the risk he once believed. "A pleasure to meet you. As for why I'm studying the Correspondence, it's rather a matter of... curiosity." It was a blatant lie, to be sure, but there was very little to tell the truth from. "And what of yourself?"

There is a young optimism in the way it speaks, a jovial energy in the way it's slighted grease and soot stained hand takes the other's. Its reckless, in many ways. "Possibility." There is measured excitement that comes off as awe at its own words. "Lil' drawins that rapidly produce heat, able to rend my notes to ashes in seconds, do you know what that means?"

Rhetorical, of course, as it continues, "sure there are zome zee ztores" there is a bear change in cadence, enough that if looking for it, could probably tell that this is it's preferred way of speaking "horrid use cases, Flukes. But... actually, I could show you!"

The Morbid Socialite perked at that, listening intently, in more than just a passive politeness. No, they were at full attention, hanging onto every word. "Would you? Could you? I wish not to engulf the classroom in flames, but if there is some other use of the Correspondence, a redirection of material into energy, then have you perhaps discovered it? What might the Correspondence do when applied differently? How might certain materials react and can it produce something else besides fire? Please, show me, I must know!" If the Socialite had not held himself back, it was doubtless he would be taking the Mechanic by the shoulders with such intensity as to cause bruising.

The smarter, actual Mechanic part of its brain sobered at the mention of blowing up the class, and reeled in the more manic, reckless characteristic abandon that they would normally enable making a point right now. Doesn't stop the widening grin and wild eyes that match the other's, there is a tangible atmosphere of the both of them being on horribly, wildly the same page. Or at least matching it.

In more hush tones, "I have notes, of my predecessor. Or at least notes of notes of his, tireless as he was. I can show them, I have a shop near the docks, after class." Their voice turns perhaps a bit shy, scratching the back of their head, they're aren't too used to being taken seriously "but its partially why I joined the class, too much side effects when you don't know what's going on!"

The Socialite nodded firmly, as if with experience. "Yes, I am familiar with the phenomenon. Many believe a blank slate to be the foremost method of research, to come at the topic with fresh perspective, without bias or preconceived notions. But, without understanding of what you're working with, you're liable to cause damage more than revelation."

They lifted a hand to their chest with a low glance, a moment of sincerity. "I would love to come to your shop, if you have the time. Expect me by evening, however. I have other matters to attend to directly after class."

Behind all the rapscallion and eccentric nature, all of the manic energy make a billion little mechanisms that do nothing, there is a smile that bleeds sincerity right back of someone who had their idea's taken seriously, not that they are all too eloquent to communicate that. "Epic :)"

They take out a piece of scrap paper, it once looked like it was part of a greater journal that got singed badly enough that it's now separate from the whole. "here's where it is, its easy to miss just look for a building that looks like arse and looks like a front for something, cya then!"

The Socialite observed the paper and came to the realization that he'd already passed by many times. His zailing vessel was nearby, docked at a rather dingy section of the port. The use of stronger criminals in attaining it did throw off would-be thieves and looters, but it still sat there, awaiting the rare zee voyage.

Still, the Socialite folded the paper and put it in their pocket, giving a polite nod. "I shall venture to find it with haste."

Maven greeted the Morbid Socialite, "Hello Maury, hello Tularemia! Are you both having a good day so far?"

Shockingly, the Morbid Socialite seemed to enter the room unaccompanied. In his hectic state, it took far too many moments to register the greeting. They looked up and plastered on a tense smile.

"Hello, dear Maven. The outcome of the day has not yet been decided on my part, but is yours well?"

"Mine is fine so far," Maven nodded in affirmation, taking in both the absence of Tularemia and the Socialite's hectic appearance, "Where is Tularemia today? Also, forgive me for asking, but is everything alright? You seem rather... tense."

The Socialite smiled, seemingly having missed the Tularemia question yet again. "Tense? Me? Oh, no, not hardly. Why would I be tense? The very idea seems simply preposterous. Me, tense..." He said this all incredibly tensely, his body rigid with it and his voice pitching up in the barely contained lie.

Maven gave them a sympathetic look, and sat close enough to talk but far enough so he would not feel crowded, and looked them in the eyes as she spoke, "You know, if there is something troubling you, maybe there is some way I could help you. Even if all you need is someone to talk to, I would be willing to do that. I know we have only recently met, so if you don't feel comfortable telling me then you don't have to. But if you need someone to lend an ear, I can do that."

The burden on the Socialite's shoulders was heavy enough to bow him physically as well as mentally. He hunched closer to his notes, the look on his face searching. Perhaps it was for the right words, perhaps it was for the right lie. Whatever the case was, whatever they settled on, they didn't look up at the Maven.

"I am afraid simply talking has failed me many years and will do no good here, though I appreciate the effort. You are kind, my dear, but this is an anniversary of a tragedy, another year holding aloft the weight of the sky as if I were to be dubbed Atlas. Words escape the burden. The only ease now is resolution." The age began to show in his eyes, haunted, even when not looking at the Maven. There were many reasons why they were dubbed the Morbid Socialite. This gaze was but one.

Maven's eyes turned down at that. She debated on the right thing to say. She did not want to unload her own burden onto his shoulders when they were so clearly weighed down already. So she opted for just a show of understanding without too much personal detail.

"I'm very sorry for your loss. I know it is a strange feeling to try and live with. It feels like everything should have just stopped when it happened, and yet the world goes on and you have to figure out how to keep going on with it. And you're right, the anniversary is the worst part. A day that is just like any other to the rest of the world holds so much weight and significance to you. It is difficult, trying to figure out how to live afterwards, and I am sorry that you had to deal with such an experience. I hope that, after class, you will be able to rest and take it easy on yourself for the day, because it sounds like you have and are already going through quite a lot as it is."

As expected, words didn't ease a burden buried so deep, but the Socialite gave an uneasy smile anyway, wishing sincerely not to discuss it further.

"Your empathy is much appreciated. You speak as if you've suffered a similar tragedy and, whilst I shall not pry further, I hope you come to know some peace in your own life."

Maven gave a small nod, respecting their obvious desire not to have her pry further as well, "I hope the same for you too someday." She stood up to give them some space, "I hope the rest of the day gets easier, even if only in a small capacity."

The Socialite flinched and finally turned. "Wait! You... don't have to go. I shall attempt to be good company, if you will spare me the time. I cannot guarantee I will be at all joyous, but I shall not be dour. Of course, you are free to choose your seat regardless of my wishes, but do not feel as if I am running you off. Please..." He was genuine, reaching out to another soul for companionship. He would find it regardless, but if the Maven wished to stay, there would be no complaint.

Maven immediately sat back down, "Of course! I just... I didn't want you to feel I was forcing my presence on you if you would prefer to be alone. I know I can be a bit... overbearing, in my desire to help others. I just didn't want to make things worse. But if my company helps, I can provide that. And please, don't worry about whether you're joyous or dour, it's important to feel whatever you're feeling in a time like this."

Why was it so much easier to give this advice than to take it, a voice in the back of her mind bemoaned...

The Morbid Socialite smiled, something genuine and warm. "You could never be overbearing. If anything, I believe human company must be a better distraction than that which is work related. Your heart is overflowing with kindness, a wonderful quality to have. Your desire to help is noble and honorable."

They did sigh as the words of comfort settled in, remembering those exact sentiments repeated day after day, week after week, every bleeding heart believing they're the first to tell an openly mourning man to feel things. It was all sweet, all nice, but they fell on deaf ears, the Morbid Socialite completely unable to feel their emotions in full with their plans in place. Denial and denial and denial, one must imagine Sisyphus sick with devotion, aching with conviction. There was nothing that could convince a man so lost to his own motivations, hidden as they may be.

Regardless, the Socialite gave a soft laugh. "While I will thank you, I have carried these emotions with me for years. One day of putting them aside for education will be loathe to kill me."

Maven nodded, "That is true. Sometimes you need to feel, but other times a distraction works better."

Unless all you ever do is distract yourself, the accusatory voice in the back of her head continued to needle her. Anything to chase away the sadness, to focus on anyone else's problems except your own.

Maven cleared her throat a little to hide a wince. This isn't about her! Focus!

Changing the subject, she focused her attention back on the Socialite, "By the way, where is Tularemia?"

Edited 2025-06-20 20:32 (UTC)

(OOC: I will be honest, and I apologize for not clarifying this sooner, I've been avoiding the Tularemia questions bc Maury reacts in surprise later on in the class when someone else points out she's missing, so he can't exactly notice she's gone before the class starts. Again, sorry about that)

The Morbid Socialite hadn't exactly been paying attention as the question was asked, too busy trying to memorize the rules laid out by the Academic in a previous lesson. "Oh, I'm sure she'll turn up." Was he even aware of what 'she' he was referring to? One couldn't say. Still, they were nice enough and refocused as soon as they realized they'd accidentally been ignoring the Maven's company. "I'm terribly sorry, I seem to have gotten distracted. But, yes, what was it you were saying about distraction as opposed to expression?"

Correspondence Scholarship, Class Two [Tuesday Morning, June 17th]

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