leviathanlovely

"What have I done...?" the Chimeric Professor thought to themself as they observed the frankly suboptimal angle at which they've arranged the Neathoscopic lens. It was far from adequate, and yet given the irregular space of the lab and its many implements, was the only one at which the Professor could combine a good emission distance with the array of lenses, prisms and measurers they're planning to install to better direct, reflect, refract, diffract and disperse the argumentative light they'll be working with. Not to mention the Feng Shui they studied from Khaganians, which theoretically helped channel the universal energies via a planned distribution of space. One never knows how many advantages one would need. But was it entirely necessary to rearrange for every new experiment their already replete laboratory?

Replete just like their personal agenda. How could the Correspondence Course work such (subjective) wonders on their social life? They already had compromised to help Thursday catch up with the lost class (and the previsible consequences), while also having talked with the Morbid Socialite (who suggested to dissect them? To whom the Professor teased? What's going on in their mind...?) about partnering up in their studies, besides the group study sessions Dr. Rosewood was already planning and promised to be too interesting to miss. They also got excited in front of the Emissary and compromised to an end-course project which while compelling, fascinating and likely deserving to impulse their scientific career, also implied lots of investment in effort, time and resources. Effort, time and resources they could so gladly be spending with the Myco-

There! The Neathoscopic emitter worked and projected a beam of hidden lights straight into the lab's ceiling. At least that will work perfectly as always. So proud they were of their Neathoscope. After persuading Dr. Gebrandt to part with some blueprints and doing the necessary arrangements some years prior, the Professor's Neathoscope has given many a joy to its owner and maker.

Just like the Soft-Eyed Mycologist. A source of joy, despite having now only known each other for four classes and a delightful week. Only thinking about him already made them sigh. If they just followed their heart they'll probably share every moment for who knows how many days with him. How can it be? What's wrong with them? Infatuated by one hell of a dancer, a mind of mysterious workings, a really handsome appearance and magnificent taste in clothing, and so open and familiar with the most esoteric matters of the Neath... How not to be drawn to such a flame, being just a moth? And with what he roused in them, the way they reacted to Maury...

But they have a duty to fulfill and a pride to live up to. And academic success has always ~~attempted to~~ been their driving force. They'll complete this project, they'll do it so perfectly they'll get patronage to further dive within the mysteries of Correspondence and argumentative light. And if they have such a delightful company meanwhile, all the better. But balance in all things, first and foremost. They just hope his husband's letter arrives soon from the Surface.

Until then, there's some sigil-carved plaques, specialized optical filters, and sources of color. They already have Apocyan amber holding a memory of the Sea of Spines, and it would be so easy if the Corresponding concepts of Love would be effected by Axile's terrible fate... And Cosmogone is the closest to the Sun among the hidden lights, so comparing the effects of both would be an easy process control...

ticktopis_observatorium

At one point, the Soft-Eyed Mycologist and the Chimeric Professor talked about going together some day to the shaping chambers... And said day, as stated by a note slipped under the Mycologist's lab door, has finally arrived. Said note gently asked to join at a certain hour by the Station IX checkpoint for a visit to Hallow's Throat via Gebrandt's Melinoë, gilded ticket provided. The Professor also invited the Mycologist to bring any sample of amber they so wished to test the effects of, but reassuring more than enough for the experience was already provided.

Thus, the Professor would be patiently waiting, once again covered in bandages and wearing a more simple attire than usually (amber keeps being rather unpleasant to finer fabrics). They're also carrying a leather satchel and a well-prepared fungal bouquet, obtained from a (comparatively) trustworthy devil contact, who gathered them from the very Iron Republic. She called them "An authentic challenge for only the most avid mycologists, a death sentence to any other." Conveniently bound by a ribbon altered by the Red Science that contains the fungal threats until released. They knew he'll enjoy ridiculing a devil's concept of "challenge", and perhaps even the treacherous contention method itself. They sure will.

the_brash_devil

The Brash Devil stood in darkness.

He looked around, not sure of where he was or where he should go.

Suddenly a scene was before him.

A gathering of devils. It looked like a party at the Brass Embassy. Celebrating their liberation from aristocracy by dressing down to the point of being scruffy and outdated, every one with a thorny rose around their wrist.

Is it possible to be both pretentious and trashy at the same time? To the Brash Devil, it felt like most devils managed to do that perfectly.

There were devils dancing in the center, somehow a perfect synchronization of many pairs of figure eights.

Many wore shoes with slivers of Nevercold Brass that created little sparks with certain steps of the dance.

He could practically feel the heat from the room.

But that's the thing, isn't it?

He isn't in the room.

There was an invisible wall separating him from the party. He couldn't see it, but he knew it was there.

Despite himself, he walked right up to the barrier and placed a hand against it.

Funny, he could have sworn he could feel the heat coming off it, but now it's cold....

Another scene appears.

Now it showed the rooftops of the Flit. A few of the urchin gangs had gathered for a special occasion.

Even the Naughts and Crosses are only being mildly rowdy and rough with each other. Practically a miracle.

He could tell from just that what the occasion was.

There was a "New Wind" coming up from the Bazaar and all the urchins were having a race in honour of it.

He smiled, remembering the last time that had happened. How much fun the race had been. Only two fights had broken out, with only one bloody nose. It was the best he'd seen all the gangs get along together.

Before the race they sang a Correspondence song. One of those ones they claim the thunder taught them.

(He'd never heard of such a thing but they claimed it's because the thunder only liked children)

And they were off.

He pressed both hands against the wall, trying to press through.

It was pointless.

He couldn't be with them.

The walls surrounded him now.

He was in London but could not move.

People passed him without a glance.

They were moving freely about the streets.

He was frantically pressing against the unseen walls as they were now pressing against him.

They continued pressing.

Him from inside, the wall from outside.

Eventually he was on his knees trying to hold back the unseen walls from all sides, even above.

He cried out. He yelled. He cursed.

And still people passed on by.

----

After he woke from the nightmare, at first he was reluctant to divulge to maven what it was. But after she had written down her nightmare while telling him about it (fuck that rotten family of hers), he finally told her. If nothing else than because he realized he needed her help transcribing the dream. (he did not want to try writing that all down himself) Afterwards, both returned to, thankfully dreamless, slumber.

theanachronistictailor

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]

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

theanachronistictailor

You dream that you are in a large, extravagantly lit ballroom. Despite its elegance and its size, it hosts a paltry number of guests, all masked as you are. A few of them are paired and dancing already, spinning in coordinated circles around its center. When you examine the floor under your feet, you see how the dancers are on set paths. In the center of the floor's mosaic, there is a proud and massive star.

A hand is offered to you. You do not know your companion, and their mask covers their face in its entirety, but the facade itself is that of a maned wolf. Their garb is of the Third City, or maybe the Fifth. Or maybe it's something else entirely, something you have never seen and yet recognize innately. When your fingers finds their shoulder, the fabric is exquisite to the touch, an utter blackness that drinks the light out of the room like an inescapable hole. Their grip on your hip is tight enough to hurt. Your fingers may break as they are squeezed by an elegant glove.

You fall in step with the stranger, onto one of the lines on the floor. The steps are quick. Your feet barely have time to land on the stone. In time it feels like you are not on stone at all, you are walking on air. Walking? Dancing. Flying. Leaping. They're all the same. Your partner glides. You turn in motion. Fire blazes from your trail.

The ballroom is empty now, save you and your masked companion. Has the room been lined with mirrors this whole time?

You find yourself in the many reflections. Here, your mask is a small bird with a curved, sharp beak. There, a snake. This one, a bat. The next, a maned wolf, like your partner.

Malleable still.

The claws on your waist tighten. The full face of the stranger dips. The mouth of its mask finds the side of your throat. Fangs meet flesh. You taste blood.

----

Having Recurring Dreams: The Hungry Silk is increasing...

Nightmares is increasing...

----

The Tailor had pulled out their small collection of prized fabrics from under the narrow bedframe. The worn little piece of luggage had carried what few possessions they'd earned while living under the Widow's roof, but they're privileged enough to say all their belongings would no longer fit so tidily. Now, the box contained those fabrics that might be common to the wealthy and elite, but were to them priceless.

They ran their hands over each one; bombazine and puzzle-damask, aurochs-fur, their one scrap of parabola linen. Already the memory of the texture of that fabric was escaping, but nothing in their collection compared, nothing. What had it been? Softer than silk, maybe closer to fur? But not so coarse. And so dark, like their favorite suit. The first suit they'd had tailored to their measurements that had felt correct.

To pursue this was to risk madness. They recognized this plainly. Already they had spent most of their evening poring over the notes they had, and existing drafts for garments, comparing, laying down sketches no larger than the length of their thumb into the fire-proof notebook that they had stripped of its lace. Several pages had been filled with Correspondence that had been drawn over, or Correspondence reimagined in the third dimension, curves and loops becoming the flowing hems of gowns and cloaks. So much exposure to the language would only damage their mind if it didn't light their hair on fire first.

But the dreams. The dreams. What had that outfit been? A sign? Was that fabric significant? Or were they reading too much into the shape of a nightmare?

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.

They fetch the notes they left the week prior, in their book of plain paper.

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

The repetition is there. What is it telling them?

The Tailor leans back on their haunches and presses their hands to their face. It is too early, or too late, for this. They've work in the morning.

They close the little case and slide it back under the bed.

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. But for maybe one.

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

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leviathanlovely

Reading

Reflecting on a Newborn Project

A Flexible Appointment

From The Outside Looking In (Devil's Nightmares)

In a quiet tea shop...

Having a Recurring Dream: The Journey of the Magi

An Encounter in the Veilgarden, 24th of June

A dream about a ballroom...

A dream about black silk...

An Exerpt

An Invitation Accepted

A Dream of Commingling

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July 2025

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