The Chimeric Professor found themself at Mrs. Plenty's Carnival. It was an uncommon sight, not because the Carnival wasn't for their tastes, it was a fun diversion, varied and colorful, but that meant it was to fill leisure time which was in short supply and when there was any it was already booked into something more relevant. This time was not the exception either. The Professor wasn't here for pleasure, but for business. With a little bit of pleasure on the side, as seen by the bag of Rubbery Lumps held in their hand while scanning the crew. Luckily the target was far from hard to spot.

Aiming for a tall, wide, cloaked figure with glowing eyes at the Carnival wasn't free of risk either. It wouldn't be the first time the Professor was beaten by a group of Neddy Men due to having disturbed the wrong Master (just what was Mr. Iron's problem?), but this time Luck was on their side: It was indeed Mr. Hearts. One delighted (as it always was) to see them, practically crushing their forearm with its gloved claw while dragging them to a fascinating show they absolutely had to watch. The main attractive of which were the loud noises involved and amount of audience making it perfect to talk about relevant matters without being overheard.

Once gone through the usual platitudes, the Professor dropped their request.

"There is a death I am doomed to suffer, four months from now. I wish to change that, and to that end I ask for your help." Spoken from a head bowed low in humility, words apologetic.

"Now now, aren't you silly, my dear? The solution to your particular ailment is already advertised everywhere! Infallible, unerring and foolproof. You don't need me telling you." The Master purred playfully, knowing all too well how the conversation will go.

"I... Am not in a posion wealthy enough to afford Hesperidean Cider, Mr. Hearts." Then again, apologetic and respectful. Even in the face of the theatrically indignant screech coming from below the hood.

"Then this will be all, no? If you know what you need and don't have enough to get that, why are you here if not to beg for indulgence and alternatives that try to bend the situation to your needs? Greedy, greedy child."

The Professor shuddered. That voice, sweet as the scent of carrion radiating from the very same lips, was hinting at a bottomless pit of alternatives already, each of them of prices all the more economically affordable but personally unacceptable in the same proportion. "Yes... It is exactly that what I ask from you, Mr. Hearts. Your indulgence, and an alternative."

"Tsk tsk tsk, silly shapeling. Then again, I don't need to tell you anything! All the necessary information you already have. A new Season of my merry Game is starting next week. A Season one certainly skilled player would know is the last one necessary to collect in exchange for a very particular reward, straight from my most coveted vaults, and far cheaper than any squeezed apple."

At that, the Professor frowned. "The Heart-Catcher sapling? That's a trophy. I've heard legends but, only that. How could it be used to prevent a doomed faith?"

The question suddenly made all the lights become irrelevant in front of the boundless dark under the oversized cloak. The burning eyes piercing that veil of darkness gazing as if to pin one's soul for dissection. The Professor became too aware of the blood running through their veins and irrigating their juicy, relenting flesh. The voice that came afterwards was sharp enough to serve their most select cuttings in a silver tray.

"Charity is a crime. The punishment severe."

Even if the sinister feeling vanished as soon as the fullstop was pronounced (yes, a Master could very well make their punctuation quite audible), the Professor remained very much overwhelmed and intimidated. Wrestling against their own throat to get the words across, they made an offer.

"If- I mean- When I end up owning that death of mine... It will be given to you, as payment, to study and do with it as you see fit. The secret death at the hands of the Sericulturists in Fair Burgundy, all yours."

Was that a squeal? It did sound like a squeal. But could not have possibly been. Not from one of the powerful overlords of the Bazaar and de facto rulers of Fallen London. Look around, none of the closest witnesses is acknowledging such thing, and neither will you.

"Now you could have started with that, silly shapeling! Very well, listen carefully and maybe take notes, I'd hate if you could not deliver on your promise due to a failure in the processes and I was forced to exact your side of the bargain from some surviving loved one, don't you agree?"

The explanation that followed could have made the Professor's every hair and scale turn white in dread. Their heart agreed that this alternative wasn't as desirable as being indebted with the whole world and selling one's soul bit by bit together with any mortal belongings to afford a single drop of Hesperidean Cider. But after hearing it, and specially because of how horrifying it was, the Chimeric Professor only had one idea in mind.

They needed to do exactly that. And it will be terrible. As much as it will be glorious.

The Tenebrous Wanderer was busy getting rid of yet another batch of snowmen, wreaths, candles, socks, holly and mistletoe. Not the biscuits, those can stay, as they have noticed they tend to disappear on their own if left visible in a platter on the mess hall around the hour Edward goes for his morning coffee. Just why keeps Parabola insisting that the Nightmare Orphanage, of all places, needs to be fully decorated for Christmas? Edward said Christmas isn't due until a month from now! And yet every single morning there's a new set of decorations perfectly set up all over. Tene is going to be so prepared when the actual proper time for decoration arrives. At least no one's singing.

Until, suddenly, a bludgeoning feeling (ne wouldn't call it 'sharp', for sharpness doesn't reach as deep nor hurts as much as a bludgeon for nem) hits nir consciousness. Ne has only felt something like that months ago, in Burgundy that one time, while ne held the Diptych-Bearing Moth and a momentary connection was established between nem, the Moth, and the Professor themself. The second time they had a chance to hear each other from within. But this time the feeling is sorrow, despair... A desperate plea for help.

Ne knows where to find them.

Burgundy is quite special, dreamly speaking. Its inhabitants dream facing upwards while living on an inversion, and so Parabola placed them in the Hanging Mountains within a golden, glorious bubble dominated by the so-called Donjon of Lillies which functionally serves as a dream-lighthouse attracting burgundians to their dreams like moths to a flame (and such an accurate metaphor that is). Reaching the Hanging Mountains is easy enough, if you're not dragging a whole army behind you; and a medieval city has enough iterations of shadows and darkness (torchlight is so environmental, ne should use them more in nightmares) to simply materialize in the silvered side of the city. If only the whole place wasn't so damn bright in gold and silver and steel...

The only time they've been in Burgundy the trio settled at the Mycologist's Elephant Keep, so ne doesn't truly know where the Professor's Ghent home lays. But ne can feel it through that loud emotional bond still active, if fading. The Professor never was one for spiralling downwards for too long, and the deadly despair was already fading into a more realistic, concerned kind of despair. The source is close to a particular mirror, and when peeking through there they were: The Chimeric Professor laying on a couch, trying to get the salt off their eyes with a wet handkerchief while hugging really close the Diptych-Bearing Moth, which was disconsolately trying to comfort the Professor nuzzling at their chest and blanketing them with its frankly very warm and soft wings. A fireplace is lit and roaring nearby, and the room itself is neatly decorated.

The mirropane is knocked softly, not making any actual sound by itself, but making the frame shake enough to hit against the wall, which produces in return the sound. The Professor, startled, sits up and turns the head around, prompting a silent protest from the Moth, who is extensively pet afterwards in apology. When the bandaged absence was perceived, the Professor gently prompted the Moth to get off them and into the air, woven wings filling the stance with flowing colors, while they stood up and went to press their hand against the glass but- No! Direct contact could still be harmful, better to be safe.

Raising a finger asking Tene to wait, having currently forgotten that Parabolan beings can in fact hear across closed mirrors perfectly well, the Professor reaches for their holdeverything for some Violant ink and using a fine brush start inscribing the Correspondence the Curious Outlaw used to manifest Tene in the reality (as far as the Neath fits that appellative). The mirror frame sizzles yet holds on, Law being enacted and allowing the little absence to step into the room. Both of them are aching for a hug. None of them dares. Perhaps it'll be better that way.

"Tene! What are you doing here?"

I-felt-your-pain

Knew-where-you-were

Came-to-check-how-are-you

How-are-you-question

At that the Professor had to stop before ringing their eyes with salt again. Out of joy this time. Tene, their Tene, isn't just back but also worrying about them. Isn't nem the most precious- Wait. What did ne say?

"You... Felt my pain? From the Orphanage in Parabola? H-how?"

Yes

I-believe-we-connect-through-two-out-of-our-three-selves

You-and-Moth-contact-me

Me-and-Moth-contact-you

Now-answer-you

"I..." The Professor sighed. Just how to explain all that? There's not enough words they know that could convey all the meaning. But hey! They don't need to, right? "I'll better show you. I... Does it work like in Parabola? Opening my mind... Well. Only one way to know."

The connection works good enough for the Professor to open their memory for the Wanderer to experience. It starts with the unsettling dream, and the decision taken of looking for answers in the Sous. How said answers were delivered, and the meaning of them... That would be bad enough on its own, but there is more, afterwards.

The morning came and, as the Gravetender promised, she showed the Professor a way to take hold of their own death. They were guided towards a bone gate, opened only by a bone key in the Gravetender's possession. And she explained how the chambers above the necropolis held all the knowledge they'll need, but each chamber asked a price in bone. If the Professor wanted all the answers, the price had to be paid with their own body. Which, to an experienced shapeling, was less of a disturbing threat and more of an exciting challenge, right what they needed to wash off the realization of impending doom.

The ascent was Treacherous indeed. Sometimes it was ivory stairs spiralling upwards, sometimes narrow tunnels through which to crawl, sometimes a dead end which showed a different path when you turned around than the one you came from, sometimes bifurcations only to the right. But even wilder were the chambers to which each of those accesses lead, each of them hungering for a piece of them, to complete the eternal mausoleum:

The Professor offered their left arm to an angel made of bone, an halo of humeruses surrounding its skeltal face, weeping black tears at the offering. Their right arm now belonged to a reliquary formed of shelves upon shelves of boxes all of which held a single skeltal hand inside, each different than the rest. Their left leg was used as a hand for a marble clock telling the hour depending on how old the skull it pointed at was. Their right leg is now in the sacrificial altar at the apse of a cathedral built entirely of ribcages. Speaking of which, the Professor's ribcage was donated to a corpse in a constant state of regeneration, consuming its own bones to form more flesh that fell for lack of a bone to hold it, the provided ribcage gaining a few precious seconds of hope and life the Professor thankfully didn't get to witness before continuing. Their spinal column is now part of the architecture of a bone chapel still in construction, helping stabilize part of the dome. To finish, their skull was thrown down a deep, dark well to buy safe passage through it before jumping right down as well.

Curiously, it wasn't the Drowned Man awaiting at the end of the fall (a completely harmless one, for a currently boneless being), but an splendid gallery carved within a colossal skull, where once a brain should have gone. A gentle slope beckoned the disemboned Professor forwards (pseudopodically, more comfortable than it seems) towards a pedestal in which a very special sculpture awaited.

Of course, it was entirely made of bone, details built on the smallest and more versatile, structure held by the biggest and more articulated. It depicted, to real size, the Chimeric Professor's previous, human skeleton standing on their (her?) feet, with a serpentine creature with a humanoid torso coiled around, looming above with the fanged mouth open, ribs stretched wide. Depending on how one saw it, the creature was either about to attack and devour the person, jaw in the middle of splitting open and ribs expanded to fit the body inside while the human's arms pushed the monster away; or about to kiss, both faces leaning towards each other, mouths slightly parted, ribs open as if to offer a hug, arms welcoming each other's forms. Both of them have the bone structure necessary to articulate wings, but those too are a sore absence.

It seems this is the impression the Chimeric Professor left in this endless, ever-hungry mausoleum. The Professor, after so many thoughtless turns and personal sacrifices, finally understood the lesson the Sous wanted to teach them.

There the shared vision ended, leaving a somewhat dizzy Tene (completely unused to feeling having bones, much less losing them), anxiously waiting for an outcome, before being reminded death is still in the Professor's horizon, and there is probably much to do yet.

Now-what-are-you-going-to-do-question

It was transmitted while radiating comforting, supportive vibrations all around the room, so much the Diptych-Bearing Moth flitted to perch at their neck, wings falling down nir back like a cape.

"I am going to die. I am going to die so good I will own my own death and do with it as I please."

Right after the Mycology class, the Chimeric Professor went straight back home. The last weeks have been... Not exactly stressful, nor anxiety-inducing, specially not when compared to those of the Maven and Devil, the Tailor or the Mycologist, but for some reason their mind has stopped following their rythm. They feel slow in their thoughts, dragging the answers out of their mind to reach their mouth or hands, and despite feeling physically well, they wake up tired morning after morning. There was a cell culture growing in their lab, the examination phase should have started an hour ago, and yet the Professor dedicated only a single thought to it before dismissing it entirely.

Now they're sitting on their bed, Noa at their feet, Delilah hanging from the ceiling, Echelon curled up on the nightstand, Añil potted by the window. For some reason, when feeling exhausted all the Professor wants is to be kept company, and luckily won't find that lacking. They finish the cup of hot honeyed milk and leave it on the nightstand (the one opposite to Echelon, no need to call for the disaster), for it will be a problem for tomorrow. Today the candle goes out, goodnights are wished upon the assorted pets and, of course, to the Honorable Industrialist wherever he roams now, and the shapeling allows themself to get lost among the comfortable warmth of the blankets and pillows.

When they wake up, it is to find a most fascinating specimen right in front of them: It is a moth, the size of a human hand, with a singular non-compound eye at the right and a sixfold eye at the left, and the antennae similarly asymmetrical with the left being simple while the right is featherlike. Covered by fluffy chetae, wings neatly folded over its body, with a wavy pattern of vibrating colors, as if someone poured several different paints down a waterfall. The little creature walked on its six legs, exploring the blanket covering the Professor, approaching their face.

Of course they needed to reach it, carefully, letting it climb into their palm. Just as expected, a perfect fit. It was so soft, so light, so calm as well... The Professor had to resist the urge to pet, due to the little creature's delicate nature. They could only hope it knew how loved it was right now, despite the lack of more obvious affection.

But right then, the Professor noticed a lump in their wrist. It grew, swollen yet painless, until the skin ripped under the pressure, open like the skin of a ripe fruit. And, from within, another similar little fluffy creature crawled, spread its also colorful wings, and took into the air. And, now that they get a better look, those similarities resides in their differences. Also asymmetrical in eyes and antennae, in the colors and pattern of the wings, different in setae, size and legs...

The pattern can be checked once more lumps start appearing across the Professor's body, spreading and developing quickly, each one having yet another chimeric moth be born and take flight. They perch on the walls, up in the ceiling, in the furniture, inside the closet, all over the bed... And wherever they touch, more and more impromptu chrysalis stem and grow and give birth to more, and more... Each one as different from the previous as they are from the next.

Before the Professor can notice, their body has been reduced to a dry, emaciated husk, all of themself fed to the growing lepidopterans. And all around them the house fills with holes, every material susceptible of being used to make more, and more, and more moths to take over all the life they've built throughout the years.

In that moment Noa steps into the bedroom and she-

Yelps.

In response, the Professor opens their eyes and sits up in the bed, breath arrested while checking for a beautiful yet destructive cloud of colorful heralds of decay... Lungs taking air again once seeing none, not even a single one. Their heart hammering against their chest, feeling not much more rested than the night before, and accepting Noa's worried nuzzling to ground themself.

They thought it was over... The Roof-melancholy was much improved ever since the soul was properly shared this time, the reccurring arthropodial dreams stopped once the issue with the Seamstress was solved, and yet... Why now? Why again?

Perhaps... Those with the most wisdom to profess regarding the Tapestry-Moths could help. Perhaps another expedition to the Roof is in order. This time to a new place. A new, dead place.

[Having Recurrent Dreams: The Chitinous Conclave is increasing...]