benthic_university | Member Posts

On Saturday, an hour before proper tea time, the Anachronistic Tailor arrives at Beatrice's Tea Shoppe to find a table that is slightly out of the way. Close to the corner of the room, just away from one of the windows that let light pour into the rest of the tearoom. They sit in the chair closer to the corner, which allows them to face the tearoom and all who enter and exit it.

The table is prepared with a tray of scones and sandwiches, but the Tailor insists quietly to the servers to wait on serving the tea itself. They are waiting for company. If that company does not arrive, they will take tea fifteen minutes after--but it would be improper to let the pot over-steep or, heaven forbid, grow cold.

For now, they take water, and they have a book with them, but one eye is on the door. They've sent an invitation to a friend, but only time will tell if that friend chooses to come.

tolpen

This letter (unsent) is not the account of the dreams the Soft-Eyed Mycologist had on the night from 24th of June to 25th of June, submitted to the Ex-Disgraced Academic. This letter was penned a few hours before the submitted account was drafted, heavily revised, and finally sealed in an envelope.

Addressed to: My heart

I belong to thee as thou belongst to me, and only to thee as thou only to me. This is not love; it will not save us. It will not condemn us.
Tonight I dreamed of the tomb which is a cradle again, and of thy person. I wish thee entered my dreams again. All I have seen lately is only the shadow of thine. ‘Tis the call of violant, forging the link between what I know that I know and what I know not yet that I know. I remember. My is the colour of memory; thy is the colour unnaming. Should my memory fail me, this letter shall persevere.
We travelled through the endless night. It was cold, as only night knows to be. The ways deep and the wind sharp. The very dead of winter; if I may call it winter, for winter is preceded by autumn and followed by fall. There was no time and no snow. Only the cold wind and the ash.
I had two companions. I knew them well then, but I know them not now. We spoke not, for there was nothing left to say between us. They held my hands, shackles of flesh and bone. I went willingly.
We were sore of feet and minds. We found no rest in laying down, in the ash-snow that melted upon our bodies until it robbed us of all the warmth we had left. Then it no longer thawed. We walked through the last winter after which there was nothing, three bodies as one, breathing and pale as the dead.

I recall reaching the cradle. ‘Twas a depression in stone from which the stars averted its light. The length was of a body and the depth was without an end. Icy water filled it to the brim, with a crust of ash upon its foam.
Within the cold water was not the body of a god. I did not see it and I did not offer a prayer to it, for I know not how to pray to such a god. Even if I knew, there is no god worthy of a prayer.
My chains, my companions, bound me to that tomb, they pushed me into the water. ‘Twas cold, colder than love, colder than life, colder than the night which knows no dawn. But my body was colder still.
The stone around me was a cage from which I knew no escape. Never before had I been submerged for this long. Never before had I known the world above the water’s surface.
My lungs burned, they ached for air.

That was when thou pulledst the cage from the cold water with a great rattling of the chains from which it and I were suspended. I knew this person to be thee and not-thee, for I saw thy face, and I knew within the dream as I know upon waking thou wouldst never bare thyself in such indecency.
My body was cold and naked and ached for thy warmth. I begged this false thee to embrace me. I cried, tears burning through the icy crust on my face.

Thy reflection dropped me back into the black waters of the grave that was no longer there. I knew it to be thy mercy, thy rescue from the nightmare of the tomb and cradle and the journey beyond the end.
I called for thee.
Water filled my lungs. I know well the necessity. Only when I am cold within and without, only then I know how to appreciate thy warmth. Only when my hearts have stopped, I know how to live in thine.

I wish it were thy hands that held me in the cold, dark waters. Thy teeth that tore me apart.

Thine, as always
[the signature is illegible]

theliedpiper

The Lied Piper sat with legs crossed in the Labyrinth of Tigers' Second Coil. Behind the bars, but that was safe here, unlike in the Third Coil. Here, they were something of a cross between an employee and a celebrity.

(Maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration, but either way, nobody bothered them.)

They hummed casually on their kazoo, feeling out pieces of melody not yet fully composed. Their mind wasn't much on it; it was just something to keep them busy while they hung out with the Somnolent Hyaena. The creature seemed to enjoy the song well enough. It kept trying to nuzzle their side, like a big cat. Maybe it liked the rat smell on them.

Or maybe it just wanted attention. Every time the Piper's masked face met those green eyes...

Their limbs weakened. They tucked the kazoo into their belt, yawning. They felt they might finally lay down for a nightmareless nap.

Of course, that wasn't exactly the plan. There was a reason they'd waited until now to come see the Hyaena, and it wasn't just because of the nightmares sparked by this week's class.

(Honestly, they weren't much worse than usual. The professor had really hyped them up too much. Twisted dreams of forgetting and betraying their friends? Bone growing over their eyes? Monsters they fought shifting to have human faces? Yeah, that was a normal Thursday. They were fine.)

"Y'know, I expected my first death to be a little more exciting." They yawned as their strength continued to drain. Maybe they should've gotten into a duel instead. But this was more efficient. Dying on its own wouldn't soothe any nightmares; it would probably just make them worse. This method would kill two birds with one stone.

Er... kill one bird and put the other to sleep...? Whatever.

"Thanks for the help." They patted the Hyaena's head blindly. "You're a real one."

They had an appointment with a dead assassin. Hopefully they'd make it back in time for next week's class.

The green light surrounding them faded, and all went black.

Current Mood: sleepy

the_soft_hearted_maven

The nightmare The Soft-Hearted Maven experienced wasn't a new one, but it had been awhile since she had last had it and with such intensity.

----

The ballroom may be lavish and bright, but all The Soft-Hearted Maven could focus on was the droning around her.

Pretty-seeming people saying pretty-seeming things, in all actuality so empty.

She stood still, hoping that doing so meant no attention would be drawn to her.

God her legs ached.

Where was her sister?

"There you are, there's someone you have to meet!"

No.

Suddenly the ballroom was gone. All was dark. But she could still see the people. No longer even a facade of prettiness. Writhing masses of shadow and viscera, shining eyes and smiles focused on her.

The worst was the floor. Or rather, the lack of a floor.

In its place was a tightrope beneath her feet. But to call it a tightrope was giving it too much credit. It was a thin wire, digging into the soles of her now bare feet, making them bleed.

It wasn't just the wire though, was it?

The lashes on the back of her legs had opened up.

(Those scars will never go away, will they)

The blood was dripping down like a waterfall into the abyss, covering the wire, making it slippery.

Could they really not see?

Did the layers of expensive fabric really cover the blood and pain so well?

Where was her sister?

"Well? Come over and greet them!"

Deep breath.

She began walking. Shoulders back, spine straight, hands clutched at her front.

The wire bit into her skin with each step.

The blood continued to spill.

She briefly became aware that she had wings, like that of a butterfly or a fairy. Could she try to fly?

(Fly where? Fly to them? Fly away?)

A cursory flap said no, as she felt a painful crack go up from her back up through the wings.

The act caused her to slip slightly, and she lifted her arms to keep balance.

All at once the eyes around her narrowed and the smiles widened. Voices that were both hushed and deafening surrounded her.

"The poor dear."

"Not much you can expect from one who's only half nobility."

"Perhaps if she had been raised from birth it could have been different."

"That's generous of you to say, but no matter how you polish it, a flawed diamond will never have the value of a flawless one."

"Now lets not be cruel, I'm sure she could still make for a perfectly suitable second wife for someone. Regardless of her birth, she still comes from a good family after all."

"That is fair. With her docile nature, she certainly has more value than that boorish sister of hers."

Laughter rang out, and suddenly she was seeing red.

How DARE they speak of her sister like that, she-

SNAP

The wire snapped, and she was falling in a shower of her own blood and the shattered pieces of the wings.

At first she just saw the faces, watching her fall.

Then she felt compelled to turn to the abyss.

Rising to meet her were the corpses of her parents, as freshly slaughtered as she remembered from that day.

----

The Maven was no longer falling. She was in her bed, clutching at the Brash Devil. His eyes shown in the dark, a look of concern on his face as she breathed heavily. No words needed to be spoken at the moment, just a comforting embrace as the visions remained in her mind's eye.

theliedpiper

Sign In:

Sign In

Before Class:

Inviting themself to dance lessons with Devil, Maven, and Mycologist
And everyone clapped! ... No? Just me?
Exchanging notes for scrap with the Mechanic
Greeting the Sub and Maven checking in

Lecture:

A change of perspective?
Fire! In The Classroom (ft. Devil and Mechanic) (Don't try this at home!)

Activity:

This is easy! ...says the one who, uh, didn't actually end up finishing it. Oops

After Class:

Letting a "secret" slip (monster hunting debacle setup)
Dancing plans

Current Music: Close by Jamie Paige

tolpen

The lights are still bright and the crowds bustle - although for the Veilgarden, this is fairly low traffic. The air is thick with the wine of yesternight, honey, and a mixture of perfumes.
The Soft-Eyed Mycologist is stalking- no not, stalking, he is loitering on the edge of the area. Biding his time. Waiting. He has a pocket watch. He doesn't check it, not even once.
Unlike earlier today, he is not wearing light blue nor teal. The tailcoat is true apocyan and so are the trousers. The waistcoat is silver and white. There is a lapel pin in the shape of a cross, and there is a pair of comfortable yet dashing shoes. They click audibly on the cobblestones and the occasional spark betrays that the soles are reinforced with steel.
Wherein one would expect him to carry a walking stick, all he holds is a parcel of a modest size, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a piece of twine. It doesn't appear to be heavy.

Current Location: the Veilgarden

the_soft_hearted_maven

"What happened after Class Two of the Correspondence Course?"

Finally posting what will be the beginning of the Monster Hunter RP for The Lied Piper, The Anachronistic Tailor, The Soft-Hearted Maven, and The Brash Devil

Keep in mind I'm still very new to this specific format of text roleplaying, so if I need to do something different don't hesitate to shoot me a line and be like "Uh hey wtf are you doing XD"

Link to the thread in Class Two where we left off: https://benthic-university.dreamwidth.org/973.html?thread=140237#cmt140237

theanachronistictailor

You dream of laying in your bed, wrapped safely under your covers. The false-summer heat leaves you tossing and turning, trying to fling your sheets off, but they stay tangled around you. Warm, smothering and suffocating. The sheets are tightening around you, pressing to your face. You press your hands to the fabric, trying to dislodge it. It distorts under your hands, pushed outward. It's only fabric, after all. For all it tries to constrict you, your claws shred through it and leave clean edges.

You slice the silken cocoon apart from the inside. When you emerge, your wings are sticky with sweat, but the thin membrane dries in the cold howling wind. It's bright. You have never seen such a brightness before. You think you hate it. It is an insult to you, and it sees you, and it's Judging you.

You are quite used to the sensation.

You leap from the clinging and cloying embrace of the cocoon, which even now beckons you back in, and drop like a stone in the dark towards the surface of the black pond that is the Unterzee. It roils, roars, and splits apart at the seams, bursting with its beast. No. Wait. That's your reflection.

There's no splash when you collide with the water. You are buoyed and cradled, and your eyes are open. Water slips through the gaps between your fingers, sweet and soft. You lift a hand to the surface of the water where you are submerged. A long, thin claw traces a curling line against the mirror, and your reflection bleeds. It drips onto your nose and your cheek. You write a word that glows against the black, and then press your tongue to it to lap at the blood. Your tongue burns.

You waken up with a hand at your throat and your fingers pressed flat to your tongue, desperate to stop the burning which you have already begun to forget. Your sheets have fallen off the end of your mattress. Your pillow is soaked with sweat.

----

Having Recurring Dreams: The Hungry Silk has increased to 1!

A Nightmares increase has been aggravated because of an item you're wearing (The Walls are Wrong).

Nightmares has reached 6!

----

The Tailor is trembling when they sit at the cramped desk in their tiny room above the shop. It is so late even the latest party-goers in Veilgarden have made it home if not to a honey-den, yet not early enough that the bakers in Spite would be beginning their work. Even the pubs at the docks would be, if not empty, then only full of sad and quiet drunks.

London is not often quiet. But it is quiet now. It only unsettles them further. Their hand shakes over the poorly lit paper.

Write down one of your nightmares. Especially if a particular vision proves to be recurring. … If a dream repeats, there is a kernel of truth in it, and it’s better to be aware of what it’s telling you.

Do they know this dream? Will it return?

Do they... want it to?

They stare at the blank page, brows pinching together. This dream feels like a secret. It's theirs. They want to keep it.

Silk. Claws. Light/dark. Water/reflections. Burning.

What had been the word written on the mirror? It hadn't been in English, but if it had been proper Correspondence, they wonder if it would have burned its meaning into their brain.

It had tasted so...

good.

themorbidsocialite

From the Journal of the Morbid Socialite, Dr. Mementomori Malodrema:

“This particular nightmare has haunted me three nights running since the lecture attended on the twenty-fourth of June, resisting honey, laudanum, and even forced insomnia, finding me waking at my desk, unaware that I had ever fallen asleep. As per the suggestion of the Emissary and Professor, I have seen to it that this nightmare be logged and acknowledged. If the mind sees fit to plague me to get me to pay attention, then my attention is granted, though not without bitterness and bleary eyes.

The nightmare begins thus:

I start with a foetal mound of flesh in my hands, squirming and mewling, though the features of the underdeveloped creature resemble both a human child and some unidentified creature of the Neath's design and, in doing so, resemble neither. My mind tells me to name it and all I can think of are London streets, London shops, the beating heart of London between my hands and leaking placental blood between my fingers and to the undefined floor below, spreading from the point where it drops like webbing and, all at once, like tears.

I am wearing gloves, cold, impersonal, and the premature babe can tell and cries harder, a sharp, painful, wailing thing that sounds like death itself. I am afraid. I am so very afraid.

My hands venture close to closing around the babe, trembling and strong enough to crush the frail body.

I am afraid.

A figure, simultaneously dark and bright, simultaneously merciful and hateful, simultaneously understanding and disgusted, approaches. It takes the mound of flesh from my hands before I can close them and I feel my heart- or perhaps my soul- tear free of my ribs, tethered to the bleeding creature that is both flesh and concept. London is taken from me and yet it is all I have.

All at once, I am falling through imperceptible void, though I know that it is filled with colors and lights I cannot see and figures that mean me harm. I cannot open my wings, it hurts to do so and they refuse to catch nonexistent wind. I am falling and falling and falling for ages that feel like a second. There is a great flash of light, a great, burning pain that overtakes my mind and body…

And then I awake, screaming.

I have so few days to resolve these dreams. It is time to take drastic measures.”

themorbidsocialite

If one had a calling card and could find an ermine stoat in the heat of False Summer, they could offer up the card and a scratch behind the ears to be escorted through London, to the flat of the Morbid Socialite. Due to the twisting nature of the streets of London, it was difficult to tell if the flat was situated closer to Veilgarden, Spite, the Flit, or Mahogany Hall, but it was nonetheless a small flat on the second storey of a building, requiring that one climb the internal stairs to reach the top floor. The door was simple, wood with a brass handle. Depending on the time of day, any number of sounds could be heard, from the chittering of weasels to the chattering of half-adopted urchins, from the cacophony of recreational drink to barren and utter silence. And, if there was a stocking on the door, it was best not to listen in.

Tularemia would climb up the simple door frame and stare down at the guest with stark, black eyes before disappearing into a small crack in the wall. Unless the guest knocked, they would be left on the stoop...

(OOC: I've realized I've handed out plenty of calling cards and invitations and had no place to start RPs, so consider this as my starter for anyone wanting to RP one on one if we haven't established how it would otherwise start!)

ticktopis_observatorium

The very night after the 3rd Correspondence class, and as expected, the Nightmares came to torment (or enlighten) them.

A swarm of bees, wings aflame, producing a low drone ever-present at all stages of the dream. "Huz" they seem to chant, in a plainsong. Every now and then one will fly in front of the view, as if a cloud of them surrounded the dreamer.

Skittering and chittering, discernible even above the drone. Seeing from the perspective of an eight-eyed kaleidoscope (not unfamiliar even to the waking dreamer), perceiving trails of scent, feeling the hidden vibrations of the world through eight legs... But most importantly, having the compulsion of knowing what path lies ahead towards your destiny, even if you don't know what awaits at the end.

Following that path leads to a dormitory, then next to a bed. Then close to a peacefully asleep face. A face well known. That's the Anachronistic Tailor, the Soft-Hearted Maven, the Morbid Socialite, the Portentous Pawn, the the Lied Piper, the Undistinguished Pupil, the Soft-Eyed Mycologist, the Idiosyncratic Mechanic, the Star-Collared Scientist... It seems the face changes at every second (the Brash Devil and Ex-Disgraced Academic conspicuously absent) but everyone suffers the same fate.

The dreamer approaches, chitinous palps in the ready, attracted by the fiery light shining deep within the sleeping victim's eyes. Borrowing under their eyelids, clasping around their eyeballs, pulling until the eye goes out, cutting the optic nerve with sharp chelicera.

The experience causes the sleeping victim to weep in sorrow, tears the surrounding bees happily drink, turning the ever-present droning into a voice. Repeating a maddening mix between rememberes sentences spoken by them and pained screams, begs and pleads to stop. Their faces remain serene and asleep, though.

Once all eyes have been gathered the scene changes. The burning eyes swollen and black, the movement inside indicating they're about to hatch... And hatch they do. A swarm of sorrow-spiders circling the dreamer, then slowly approaching, as the Council is formed. Chitin merging with chiting, flesh joined with flesh, eyes sharing their views, minds thinking as one, emotions fading as none. The feelings of ecstasy revoltingly irreconciliable with the gruesome act. But the heights at which perception and understanding reach together are very well beyond what could be aspired to alone. Such a mind hungers for even more...

Then a final image, of some kind of half-Curator half-human hybrid, laying dead and dessicated while their chest bursts open letting a very big frost-moth free to fly at will, its wings full of grids bearing countless minute Correspondence sigils writ in violant, swiftly surrounded by the swarm of bees pleading, begging and screaming in agony, while many conjoined palps loom...

That's the part when the Chimeric Professor wakes up definitely, after an uncertain amount of little sleep-wake moments of trying to escape the Nightmare in vain. It is the morning already, and they have no wish at all to incur in Correspondence study nor meet with their classmates, not now. Luckily, there's two formerly asleep men laying at their sides ready to comfort their beloved's troubled mind.

[An occurrence! The Chimeric Professor is now Having Recurring Dreams: The Chitinous Conclave]

theliedpiper

Sign In:

Sign In

Before Class:

Meeting the Pupil

Bothering the Tailor

Questionable food choices ft. the Maven's well-meaning advice

Class has Begun:

Tormenting the Devil

Impressions of Maven

4-word sentences and subsequent soaking

Making a fool of themself in front of Thursday

After Class:

In the closet with the Tailor

Current Mood: indescribable
Current Music: antonymph

theanachronistictailor

...is misty in the Marshes. There's a fog that rolls in from the zee, cool and damp. Do things move in there, or do your eyes play tricks? Perhaps it's both. Listen for a rustle. There.

Something is fighting in the dark. There's the sound of snarls, bestial, mean. The splash of a disturbed pool of water, the flash of a muzzle-shot. A pained yip, then the squelch of a sharp implement thrust into something fleshy. The rip of it being torn away. Agonizing silence.

What comes out of the darkness into lamplight is dragging a filthy pelt, unmistakably white under the grime. A marsh wolf is no easy prey, much less a white one. The thing dragging its body is dressed in much darker colors, if only a little cleaner. Most of the muck is constrained to the boots, and to the long coat, though the knees of the trousers are stained from hours of kneeling and crouching in the mud.

The Tailor is sliding the strap to their harpoon back over their shoulder. The thing gleams, tip still coated with blood. The fellow's face has a streak of dirt on one cheek, and their hair hangs loose over their un-notched eyebrow.

Tonight they are a Monster Hunter. It's a secret they guard from their companions, who seem not to recognize their peligin eyes as anything more than natural color. No reasonable individual in good standing would be in the Marshes, they've found, but then, most individuals do not work for Mr. Inch.

Other things move in the dark. They can hear it. A leather glove stays on the strap of their weapon.

theidiosyncraticmechanic

If you had a boat in need of expert repairs and quality, timely relaunching, all safe and zeeworthy so that she could run to the Southern Archipelago without a sweat, you would go to the Drydocks, hire some respectable dockyard to take a good look at her. Want the best money could buy? You go to Cotterell & Hathersage. You a stooge who works with them spectacled, shady, motherfuckers? You call into the Admiralty Yards. You want a magician to do it? This is possible, please do not let the magician do it.

You need someone to not ask questions, willing to spin the wheel between as many corners that could possibly be cut or eerily perfect condition, or otherwise had less than legal or monetary means to have your ship serviced?

Through the smoke and bustle of Wolfstack Docks, in a dingy little corner shoved away in the shadows of even shadier establishments and dice games. If not for the giant, dockyard crane that protrudes out from the roof and all the way over the dockyard waters, there would be a very easy to miss and precariously built little shop.

The boards the line the walls are nailed on an noticeable angle, the architecture ramshackled, and hanging from a broken chain in faded paint: "Milk & Repairs." the windows boarded but it is just possible to peer inside where amongst a various zub and steamer parts, where The Mechanic is at a workbench of a well kept and standard affair, head and arms inside a giant metal box, working on whatever is inside.

theexdisgracedacademic

Kidnapped!

a watercolor image

...well, it wasn't like office hours were going to be happening. Guess it was time for tea and having the contents of an entire novel explained to them before they'd have to read it anyway.

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Omnes adsint, quamvis dementi, quamvis nefasti.

Member Posts

In a quiet tea shop...

Having a Recurring Dream: The Journey of the Magi

Homework

Surface Pressure (Maven's Nightmares)

Week 2 Threads

An Encounter in the Veilgarden, 24th of June

Monster Hunter RP

A dream about black silk...

An Exerpt

An Invitation Accepted

A Dream of Commingling

Week 1 Threads

London, at night...

A quite idiosyncratic meeting.

The Ex-Disgraced Academic's University Laboratory [Wednesday Afternoon, June 19th]

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June 2025

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