the_maven_and_the_devil

(OOC: This thread will just be drabbles and snippets of Piper's past with the Golden Silverer, which they re-experienced when she ambushed them in Parabola. They aren't in chronological order.)

She was beautiful, in the manner of a dream. Maybe she was a dream - after all, she didn't look like this in the Is, with her full-body bandages. Did Parabola let her manipulate her form that much?

It seemed like it was Piper's first time being brought through the mirror, the way their younger, brighter self looked around with such wonder. At the verdant Viric foliage. At her.

She still wore her Cosmogone spectacles, large enough to hide her eyes completely. Piper had assumed that was where her name came from. But here in Parabola she also had long, wavy golden hair spilling down her back. She twisted her strange two-pronged fork in it, and in a motion that never would have worked in the Is, the fork held it back in a perfect bun.

"No point in getting snagged on any branches," she told them, dusting her hands off on her emerald dress.

Her uncovered hands. Her uncovered face. She looked an entirely different person, and yet her mannerisms were the same, alternating between proper and casual at a moment's notice. Piper still couldn't place her age at all.

"What? Were you expecting me to be ugly or something?" She smirked. Had she warned them that she'd look different in Parabola? The memory fragment didn't extend back far enough for Piper to know.

"Who says you're not?" They stuck their tongue out at her, and she cackled.

"Yeah, yeah, well don't let my ugliness distract you from paying attention." She flipped her bangs, the bit of hair that was free from her bun. "I thought you'd be a little more impressed with the jungle. You've never seen one, have you?"

They didn't think they had. They hadn't seen a lot of things. There was a lot of green. It was hot, and humid. That part felt familiar, at least, even if they didn't remember why.

"Anyway, you were the one begging me to give you the tour, so you better pay attention." She grabbed their hand, tugging them forward. "Parabola can be a dangerous place for a - for a kid like you."

Piper didn't think they were a kid. They were twenty, at least. Probably.

"Whatever you do, don't listen to any snakes..."

theanachronistictailor

It has been several days: Since class, since a Tailor had asked a question a Mycologist had promised an answer to, and since one Professor had advised their friends about the an impending... well, deadline, for lack of a more sensitive word. In the moments following the announcement, the Tailor had looked hard within themself, counted up their pains and questions in contrast to such a significant situation, and had come to a conclusion: some things surely could wait. Nevermind how the thought stung, their priorities demanded resolutions to problems with short time-frames.

(To look in the Tailor's psyche is to see the cracks that are starting to show. Perhaps one doesn't need to look so far, however- but then the shadows under their eyes aren't new, and the complexion can be put to the cold season.)

Despite their willingness to wait, the Mycologist had taken on a look, reminding them through sheer posture something he had told them on more than one occasion: no half-measures. They could not find it in themself to be relieved, and when the invitation for dinner that week had come, they had decided to brace for whatever may come. Already the week has felt long for a number of reasons they put aside for now, walking with the Professor alongside them from the Glass Door to the Ivory Door and up to the Mycologist's lodgings.

It is a chilly evening, though you would not know it within the Bazaar. The Tailor walks alongside the Professor with a smile they hardly feel on their face. They both know the way now, and both are welcome for now, but the fellow still knocks on the frame that accounts for a door where the curtain hangs.

"You think he's finished grading the essays by now?" they ask the Professor jokingly. "I know he said we can't bribe the teacher into better grades, but there's no harm in trying, is there?" Lighthearted, at ease, doing all they can not to show anxiety, but at least if there's any to be seen it can be put down to a worry over the shapeling's health.

(And if the Mycologist overhears them through the curtain, he too can know they're trying for lightness as long as they can.)

tolpen posting in

benthic_university

Once again you find yourself attending an evening class on the Selectech Chapters from Practical Subterranean Mycology. Even though the subject has a tradition nearly as old as the Fall, no one has bothered to rename it so it would form a good acronym.
Today the classroom is looking almost cheerful. Someone had cleared out all the poetic yet grim memento moris. Someone, quite possibly someone else, had then decorated all possible and impossible surfaces of the room in joyful expectations of the Yule, in the best traditions of the four weeks of Advent. And finally a third someone has then replaced all the saints and angels, including the Virgin Mary and even the swaddled baby Jesus in the manger, with elephants, all triumphantly raising their trunks. Since the elephants are wooden or ceramic, they do not toot. But if they could, it would be a cacophony your ears would not appreciate for long.
(Yes, in the manger the baby elephant is carefully swaddled in the finest silk. Yes, there are several elephants hanging under the ceiling whom you can pull by the string and they then flap their gigantic ears, which apparently are how they fly. And yes, several of those flying elephants have musical instruments, such as a lyre, tambourine or– No, that is not a trumpet, that is just a gilded trunk, now that you came closer it is plain to see.)
( Read more... )

theliedpiper

"You - remember?"

The Maundering Rat's eyes, normally dropping, were wide with shock. And then they were full of familiar tears, as Piper rushed to hold him.

"I... still not a lot, I'm sorry..." they admitted, voice cracking. "You remember the friend I brought a few weeks ago? The Chimeric Professor? They're helping me with an Apocyan treatment. I just saw bits and flashes... but it looked like you were important to me."

He dabbed his eyes with a rat-sized handkerchief, then blew his nose. He let Piper hold him in their hands, but he was shaking his head.

"Of course. Of course, you wouldn't... couldn't... and they didn't..." Another honk of his nose being blown. "They weren't supposed to tell you."

"Huh?"

"My heart is too old for this, Liar. You - you're only going to hurt yourself again..."

"What do you mean?" Piper's brow furrowed.

It... it had been too much to hope that someone did want to see them again, hadn't it? He could have reached out at any time, if Piper was important to him. They saw him every weekend. He'd never said a thing.

(He'd been kind, though. All the rats were, but him most of all. Even if he was upset right now... could it just be because it had taken them so long to remember him...?)

He shook his head.

"You have a good thing going for you, child. You've got your human and mostly-human friends. You don't need an old rat and his dangerous pasttimes. Don't throw yourself away again for my sake."

"I... I'm not..." their voice cracked. "Is it so bad that I want to remember us being friends...?"

Unsteadily, he climbed out of their palms.

"I just want you to live," he murmured. "Don't want you to end up like me."

"I think you're really cool, though."

He chuckled at that.

"You're too sweet, Liar. You always were. Please. Don't... don't get my hopes up again." He turned his back on them, adjusting the sheet over half his wares. The half he'd always (in their recent memory) refused to let them look at. They had a better guess why, now. "If you want something, come back with shillings. Otherwise I'll... see you next week."

Their eyes watered, but they nodded. If that was what he wanted. Maybe... maybe when they remembered him better, things could be different.

Or at least they'd be able to understand why they had to be the same.

---

Maybe if things had gone better with the Maundering Rat, Piper wouldn't have gotten themself into this mess. But maybe it was inevitable. It happened too quickly to not have been planned.

As soon as Piper stepped through the mirror, hoping to return to their secret base and find comfort with Tene, their feet fell through open air.

Parabola could be tricky. Every Silverer knew that. You looked where you were placing your feet, or you deliberately Didn't look, urging the ground to shift in between blinks, shortening distances, taking you where you needed to go.

Piper had looked, but in between blinks, the ground had simply become liquid. A thin veneer, a splash of cold water, and then they were tumbling through the air, spinning -

Like the time they'd dived into their memories, but worse. That had been intentional. Gravity had righted after just a moment. This time, gravity didn't seem to notice what was going on, either, and only remembered to pull them back down after they were several feet in the air on the other side.

They landed bodily on a hardwood floor. Inside.

Inside the parlor from their memories. Where they'd learned to play the piano. Was this some kind of side effect of the Apoycyan...?

A laugh bounced off the walls. Familiar. Chilling.

"What? WHAT? I thought you wanted to see me!"

They quickly got to their feet, head swiveling. They couldn't see the woman behind the voice. There was no tracking her by sound, either; it seemed to come from everywhere at once.

"Metaphorically. You don't get the privilege of beholding me yet." She sniffed.

"I did want to see you! Did you bring me here?" Piper asked. "Who are you?"

Another bitter laugh.

"If you have to ask that, then you're not qualified to know."

While she was talking, Piper's eyes scanned the room. They didn't want to miss the chance to get valuable information, even if it was just from their twisted memories.

The piano looked old, but in good condition. While it was clearly the most interesting object in the room, Piper turned their attention away from it. Better pick up clues from the parts they'd missed earlier, first.

There was a fireplace, unlit. A mantle above it, lined with jars. All of them empty, right now. The tuning fork-like object the bandaged woman had held in the memory rested next to them. A couch, also old, rose patterns woven pink on the emerald green upholstery. Matching pink curtains obscured the windows, and when Piper moved to peek through one, the voice snapped at them.

"Don't ignore me!" The voice was somehow both commanding and petulant. It was almost... cute? "Ahem. You call yourself a Silverer? What are you doing letting some scientist poke around in your memory? If you're worth your lenses, you can find me on your own."

"I was... I was going to..." They'd started, hadn't they? They'd chased the Irrigo out of their memories of summer. They just needed a push to go deeper.

Could they have done it on their own? Maybe. But they wouldn't have had the guts to.

"Whatever. Make me wait another five years. Who cares," she grumbled. "You think you can handle the truth this time? It's going to be worse. The more times you've failed, the harder it's going to hurt."

"You think I can't handle it?" they snapped back, tired of being talked around and down to.

They recognized the voice, now. Beyond just the woman from their memory. When they'd cleared some of the Irrigo before that, they'd heard a voice telling them - telling them how far they'd come. It had sounded proud of them.

They wanted that again. They wanted to make this woman proud. They wanted her to be impressed with them. The drive felt natural and instinctive. Who cared if Professor had told them to take things slow? Hadn't they waited long enough?

"Ha! I missed that look! Too bad you've got that stupid mask in the way. Ah, well. You won't be able to hold onto that fire long, anyway."

The floor opened up again - tearing right through Piper's attempts to hold it together - and they were tumbling through Irrigo dreams.

theanachronistictailor

Winter sets in proper, as winter always does. Weary, the Tailor sits in their office and stares at the sheet of paper on their desk without seeing it. It is their essay for the mycology seminar, completed earlier in the week where time allowed and leads for their final assassin could wait for more than a heartbeat. As far as essays go, it is... well. It functions.

They keep trying to see if it can be improved, but even in their own handwriting the letters swim. They lift their glass of brandy to their lips, frustrated, exhausted. Sleep's been hard to come by, and only been made worse since they returned from Wolfstack Docks after-

After-

God almighty, they don't want to think about it. It hurts and confuses and it's a problem for later. Even this simple decision has them setting the glass down hard enough the liquid within sloshes up the sides.

The Tailor presses their hands to their face. They yearn for focus, for clarity. Their mind swims. Sitting back in the high-backed seat, a hand still over their eyes, the fellow sighs.

At the very least, they've sorted the issue with the nuns for now. Only a day before, the once-nun had looked them over in her moments before the honey-dream had claimed her, and had asked them a question they didn't have the answer to.

Why are you doing this?

What a complicated question. They wish they could escape, like she has from the convent, into honey dreams of tenderness. She forsake her cause for peace. They cannot do the same.

( Read more. )

denise posting in

dw_news

Hello, friends! It's about to be December again, and you know what that means: the fact I am posting this actually before December 1 means

karzilla reminded me about the existence of linear time again. Wait, no -- well, yes, but also -- okay, look, let me back up and start again: it's almost December, and that means it's time for our annual December holiday points bonus.

The standard explanation: For the entire month of December, all orders made in the Shop of points and paid time, either for you or as a gift for a friend, will have 10% of your completed cart total sent to you in points when you finish the transaction. For instance, if you buy an order of 12 months of paid time for $35 (350 points), you'll get 35 points when the order is complete, to use on a future purchase.

( The fine print and much more behind this cut! )

Thank you, in short, for being the best possible users any social media site could possibly ever hope for. I'm probably in danger of crossing the Sappiness Line if I haven't already, but you all make everything worth it.

On behalf of Mark, Jen, Robby, and our team of awesome volunteers, and to each and every one of you, whether you've been with us on this wild ride since the beginning or just signed up last week, I'm wishing you all a very happy set of end-of-year holidays, whichever ones you celebrate, and hoping for all of you that your 2026 is full of kindness, determination, empathy, and a hell of a lot more luck than we've all had lately. Let's go.

ticktopis_observatorium

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.

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The Maven and the Devil

December 2025

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The Maven and the Devil

Reading

Snarl of Memories (Between Mycology class 3 and 5)

An Awkward and Inevitable Dinner

Mycology Seminar - Class Five [Tuesday Evening, 2nd of December]

Ambush on Memory Lane (Between Mycology class 3 and 5)

A Completed Examination, A Completed Essay (December 1st)

Look! I remembered to post before December started this year!

A Heartfelt Request

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December 2025

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