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For reasons that are your own, you have braved the Benthic Department of Cryptobotany and Subterranean Mycology. There is no rhyme nor reason to the numbering on the door - they've been numbered as the sections of the wall were being knocked down to make an entrance, then re-numbered when certain numbers became particularly unlucky.

But finally you find what you've been looking for. It is not the number, but a plaque that bears some editing.

Benthic Department of	~~Cryptomycology~~
	Subterranean Mycology

Laboratory XI

Authorised personel only
Nur Mitarbeiter
N'y pense même pas

EYE PROTECTION MANDATORY PAST THIS POINT

You ignore this door and head to the ones right left to Laboratory Eleven. In brass it helpfully informs you that it is the residing office of the Lecturer in Subterranean Mycology, the Soft-eyed Mycologist. A slightly less helpful paper glued to the door by a peeved student tells you that the office hours of this guy are determined by Madam Shoshana.

Should you be brave enough to knock on the door, though, the Soft-Eyed Mycologist opens, all sharp waistcoat and soft smile. He ushers you in with: "How may I help you?"

The door fall shut and there you are, surrounded by haphazardly stacked books and fungal pots. A cup of tea, orange in smell and colour, is pressed into your hands. This is still London, after all.

Current Mood: listless

It is not as if Edward hasn’t tried. He has! He has, he even has a witness! It’s just that getting hold of his husband in the Parabola at the moment is really, really hard.
Alright, fair, at first Edward hasn’t noticed that the Mycologist hasn’t truly been in the Parabola lately. He was busy isolating the Orphanage, teaching (and, he admits, being taught by) Tene, making a breakthrough in Parabolan optics and draining a river from the basement. It has been busy since the end of the summer. Yes, these are excuses.
Erratic sleep pattern. Avoidance of mirrors. And of course the complete lethargy and apathy in the man’s reflection. (Edward had to check numerous times to make certain that the Braided Lyon was still breathing.)
In the end he has to do this the hard way.
Every dreamer has their place within the Parabola. Their dreaming grounds. The dreamer may be gone, but the place, however small, persists. Maybe even after death, Edward isn’t sure.
All he had to do is to find Surya’s dreaming grounds again and wait for him there. So that is what he did.
He pulls the collar of his coat closer to the neck. The slight movement makes a small avalanche of ash-snow fall off his head and shoulders.
The ice whistles as it creaks.
And- There it is!
( Read more... )

Current Mood: drained

As evening settles on London, the Soft-Eyed Mycologist approaches the Chimeric Professor's residence.
He is dressed rather casually - the shirt and jacket both suggest a priest whose spare cassock is also in the laundry. The trousers do nto suggest anything, and the shoes suggest that whatever is going to happen, it shall not happen deeper in the marches. The amount of piercing jewellery implies that some goldsmith had gotten very rich recently. (The suggestion is wrong, of course.)

He is not coming empty-handed. No, he is indeed brining a veritable present. After all, he is planing to take away Noa's caretaker for the evening (and hopefully the night), so some sort of an apology is warranted. The apology is dried game meat, hunted in the outskirts of Ghent. (Yes, it took time. Yes, it hurt. Yes, Noa deserves the best. Even if that best is a giant upside-down mollusc that had scraped its radula over, well, all of the Mycologist.)

And here he goes, knocking on the door. He is doing this. He is being social.

The Nightmare-Orphanage is significantly bigger than its Is counterpart. It can fit several human imaginations into it. Take the workshops for example.

This one is one of several, and most of what it consists looks like it was furnished by a potter with more arms than sense. Edward is trying to remember the process of mask making, and explain it to the Tenebrous Wanderer. This so far has included taking off his coat and rolling his sleeves up to better work with the fine clay.

So far it seems to him that Tene is taking well to the Parabola and the Orphanage alike. He thought it would be ahrder to explain to the Orphanage that Tene belongs here. But the orderlies leave nem alony, the corridors do not move to hinder nir walks through it, and there is even a room for nem here now. Empty, sure, but that means ne can furnish it however ne pleases.

God knows that Edward never got good at the furnishing part. Or filling up the empty spaces part in general.

"In theory I should be making a mould based off your face and work on that. But unless you've grown a face while I wasn't looking, I don't think that's going to work," he scraps this attempt to. Alright, let's start again.... It should look like a head, come on. Heads aren't that hard.

Current Location: the Nightmare-Orphanage

The moths swarm to welcome their new brethren

Their wings are a storm of ice and fractals. Every touch cuts like a razor. They would flay a skin off a person within minutes. They snuff out the candles in the grand cathedral one by one to feast on the half-melted wax. Soon the place plunges into dim dark.

Only a slice of false-light is allowed in through the rose window. The stained glass paints what little can be seen in greens and purples. Wings of frost flutter at its edge. As the frost-moths approach the altar, their countless bodies chip away the last remnant of light by sliver, one wing at a time.

They have time. They are patient and can wait. The chrysalis that is the Chimeric Professor shall open within moments. A new sibling will grace them, its wings fresh and sharp, its hunger not yet sated. And they all will

scatter in sudden light.

Where the door ought to be and never was, there is a light - a bright flame that flickers. Someone has entered the grand cathedral. The flame reveals only half of their face; bare flash drawn in deepest sorrow. Whoever it is, they approach, their measured steps echoing ominously.

The frost-moths flee, not to melt in the vicinity of the flame. The light returns with their departure.

The flame is held in a bare hand, hovering a few centimetres above the palm of the approaching man. His face is not skinned, that was merely a trick of the light that played on the polished red mask of tragedy.

As he reaches the alter and the Professor, Edward sends the flame away with the flick of his had. He doesn't respect the cathedral for what it is and doesn't bother to lower his voice to a respectful whisper: "As lovely as this dream is, we don't have time for this. You want to find one specific moth, not just," he gestures vaguely towards the ceiling, "a passing fright."

He turns around: "Well, come along. We still have to pick up your friend."

Where the door ought to be, now that the cathedral has light to it, is a hole knocked in a wall. Several bricks have spilled in. It's this hole through which Edward exists. If the Professor takes too long to follow him, it is also this hole through which he peeks back and adds: "Hurry up. You fell asleep there or what?"

It is hard to keep one's footing on the rooftops with this wind. Even hiding between the chimneys is only a short-lived reprieve, because inevitable the wind will turn. Regret is the greatest sin, and tonight is the reckoning.

At least with the continuous thunder the wind's howling cannot be heard. Lighting after lightning paints the rooftops of London black and white. the tower of the All Christs catches the most of them, but not all of them. Sooner or later one is bound to hit its target. Provided the zee-spray and wind won't cause the gravity to usher that target to its demise...

The next spray of water that would hit the Tailor in the face doesn't arrive. Someone looming over them is holding an umbrella above their head.

The next strike of lightning illuminates a red mask amidst the black-and-white roof tiles, windows and chimneys. A few steps behind the Looming Nightmare is the Chimeric Professor, also armed with an umbrella that is defiantly not turning itself inside out in the wind (it's all about the attitude).

"Hey," Edward extends a hand to help the Tailor up. "You are taking a field trip with us. But we are taking a little detour first. Follow me."

He walks across the slick rooftops as if it was the most natural thing to do. As if the storm couldn't touch him. And maybe it really cannot. The weather clears up only a few rooftops away, changing into a typical scenery of London: lights, smoke and murmur in the streets below.

The view, though, is not one commonly seen. If that is All Christs Spire (still slightly abuzz from all the lightning strikes) and over there is the Topsy King's court, then this place would be...
In the heart of the Labyrinth. A place with such a bad reputation that even the criminals avoid it.

There is a skylight open. Through it you can see what might be a hospital room that someone has made a semi-permanent residence in. Edward rolls right inside, not even snatching his thoroughly drenched coat on the frame. It is obviously a movement he's done many times before.

It is a beautiful Thursday evening. The bats are chirping, the lights are dimming. Someone is knocking on the window to the room in which the Anachronistic Tailor resides. To the surprise of no one (or almost no one), it is the Soft-Eyed Mycologist.

The man is sitting on the windowsill and looks a little off. It's not the clothes - sure, it is a plain shirt and plain trousers and none of them are blue. It's not the lack of jewellery, although today he is omitting the ostentatious pieces and has settled for simple hoops of metal - just on his face there are over a dozen fo them.

Oh. It's actually the pince-nez. He is not wearing it.

He waits for the Tailor to open the window before he even says anything, but he does a cheerful little wave.

Benthic Department of	~~Cryptomycology~~
	Subterranean Mycology

Laboratory XI

Authorised personel only
Nur Mitarbeiter
N'y pense même pas

EYE PROTECTION MANDATORY PAST THIS POINT

Despite this ominous warning, the Mycologist takes a deep breath and cracks the door open, although he does put his goggles on.
"Welcome to my little kingdom," he beams at the Piper and in a sweeping motion indicates the laboratory.

It is far from a cold, sterile place. Almost every surface bears a terrarium or a Petri plate, each with some kind of a mushroom or at least a mold. The far end holds a low tank with two lab rats. One is nibbling on a sandwich, the other is shrugging back into its lab coat and climbing up to have a yet another go at the soil samples.
A nearby plate with an adhesive surface is measuring the amount of spores in the air - it is fairly low, considered the place is a bit of a jungle.

"Thou dostn't have to worry about the eyewear; we've concluded the retina experiment a few months ago. But it keeps most of the nosy students out, so we've kept the sign."

Current Location: Benthic University (Mycology & Botany)

The journey to the Soft-Eyed Mycologist's lodgings leads from the University across the river, and then twists into the very streets of the Bazaar. Into the parts where back alleys have their own back alleys, where the signs are more discreet, displaying windows dusty or shuttered and where most Londoners realize that they should have brought a big yarn of twine.
The Mycologist, hand in hand with the Chimeric Professor, walks these mews with the assurance of someone, who is absolutely certain where they are going, and fully expect the streets to collaborate with that premise. Which is half of the trick of navigating around these parts. The other half of the trick is to tire the streets out and let them give up first. Third half of the trick is not to show any sign of fear and to not approach from behind. Applicable as much to the Bazaar as it is to horses.

The streets are a rag-tag gathering of various houses the unifying features of which is rusty bricks and heavy doors. The Mycologist ends up leading the Professor to a house which was notably rather nondescript, save for where a second story would be and turn into an attic, there was a great deal of glass - a dome of a greenhouse. The growth was too thick, however, to see further in, not to mention that the unflattering angle made the glass reflect light and made observations all the more difficult for it.
The brass plaque on the door is warm to touch. It doesn't provide a name, but it promises expertise consultations with legal and security matters. A smaller plaque, slightly newer, kindly asks all WaDMoF submission to be left in the mail and submissions exceeding in volume the capacity of the mail slot to be sent to the Benthic Department of Subterranean Mycology (Formerly Benthic Department of Cryptomycology), laboratory XI.
An unhelpful graffiti adds that for office hours of this place one ought to contact Madame Shoshana.

The heavy door gives way to a small entry room which is dark and barren except for a deserted coat hanger. Ignoring both door leading further in, the Mycologist makes his way up the narrow and creaking staircase without as much as his footstep making a sound.
On the first landing he gives the first door on his left a hefty kick; "There is a trick to it, the frame has sagged," he explains.
Beyond the door is a hoard. Well, it is a living room, but it is buried under, well, everything. Mostly books and papers, but there are also pretty teacups (there is a handful that comes in pair, but most doesn't), stray pieces of bones and glim and even a few chunks of amber at this point permanently fused with the table. And of course the mushroom pots. Every horizontal surface has at least one on it. es, that includes the sofa and the armchair.

"Make thyself comfortable wherever. If it looks like a religious text, please move it not."
There is a hearth. Despite the false summer, it has a fire going on. And in spite of that, the house feels... quite chilly, actually.
The Mycologist throws his gloves and jacket over a beautiful and severely overgrown russula, and adds some coal to the fire. The room is nto warmer for it, but at least it gets the kettle going.
"While the water heats up... Ask, and I promise to answer truthfully."

Current Location: Bazaar Sidestreets

The following letter has appeared on the Mycologist's vanity overnight. It has since then been meticulously filed away with its brothers and sisters in the repurposed hatbox that usually serves as a table for a beautiful potted burlap stem. The fungi of he house shy away from that hatbox. And from the vanity, come to think of it.

Addressed to: Dearest

I know I do not write to you often. I don't have the way with words you do. But we have scarcely seen each other lately and I feel I need to warn you.
You are courting a disaster. Again. And while I am grateful that you haven't stepped away from me when everyone (myself included) told you to do so... Whatever you are doing, let it be. Let it go.
You won't. I am aware you won't. I know you inside and out. But I still have to ask you anyway.
'What does he know of what I do and whom I court? What does he care?' Those might be your thoughts, except more verbose. More poetic, like everything you say and do is more poetic.
First of all, I am your b____y husband. Of course I care! And I do not like to have a competition in the form of a self-destructive project. If you want to have your skull unfolded open, all you have to do is ask and I will do it! You won't even have to ask, I'll do it anyway.

But more importantly, not only I care, I know something is wrong, because the Parabola around your dreams has changed.
Yes, it changes all the time. But those changes are gradual. They follow a logic. Dream logic, but a logic nevertheless. It is never a sudden upheaval of the dreamscape.
Your dreams are now made of snow. Each snowflake like a razor. They cut and get beautifully lodged just beneath the skin.
There is no light there. The entire Parabola basks in the cosmogone light the Second Sun... except for whatever you have going on right now. It is dark and watery. It doesn't even work as a nightmare well, because whatever goes bump in the dark, you don't get to see it even when it bumps into you.
Not that anything goes bump there. Well, I did, but I don't count. I was just visiting.

Oh yeah, I also fell into a hole there. Not too deep, mind you. Easily climbed out, really. It could stand to have a headmarker. Or howling wind around.
As far as maintenance goes, this thing you've made is easy, but... I know you. You can dream worse and bigger.
Has this anything to do with you waking up covered in hoarfrost every morning?
Maybe sleep with the lid open; it might freeze shut otherwise. Oh I would be overjoyed to have you there, all wrapped in velvet in a tight box. Like the old times. But you always complain about having to get up every morning to do this or that. You'd be downright insufferable if you messed up your schedule.

I promise I'll visit. Don't think I haven't noticed your ears have healed.
Polish the pretty needles, would you?

Sealed with kisses
E.

For this or that reason you have sought out the Soft-Eyed Mycologist. Possibly you have met him in a certain "corresponding seminar", possibly you have heard of him in a different context.
Whether you have asked for him at the university (he, apparently, has a dedicated laboratory), knocked on the door of his little office in the back alleys of the Bazaar only to be met by the housekeeper, or tailed him from a small gathering of the Counter-Church in the Spite, you have ultimately ended up in the Medusa's Head.

This is the pub with the best worst reputation in London. The Mycologist sticks out like a sore, well cleaned thumb in flashy blue adorned with jewels. He is draping himself over the shoulders of Burglar of Very Little Consequence, flashing the cards the man is holding with a mirrored brooch to the rest of the impromptu gambling table. As your eyes find him, he cracks a joke which you do not catch, but it leaves the table roaring with laughter. He then excuses himself to the bar. His pot of tea has just arrived.
For a moment the scent of stale beer and cigar-smoke is interrupted with a flash of oriental spices and tea-leaves. Tea. In this pub. Nobody even raises their head.

As the realization that this man is a regular fixture in this establishment dawns upon you, you also note that right now the Mycologist is entirely unaccompanied at the bar. There is no better moment than this to get his attention. He doesn't seem to be in any hurry.

((Summer 2025 Extracurricular RP Archive))

An Encounter in the Veilgarden, 24th of June
A Flexible appointment
A Place of Agreeable Tea, 24th of June
A Tour Through the Laboratory, Somewhen Between 8th and 14th of July
Double Date Devil Dancing, 22nd of June
An Incorporeal Encounter in a Solid Place
At a merchant tailor's shop...
Unraveling the Holy Tangle
Checking on the Mycologist
Marsh Beasts, 21st of August
The Journey of the Magi, 23rd of August
Advocate at the Door, 30th of August

((Notable Correspondence Seminar RP Archive))

Class One (10th of June): Class has begun (20 sentences)
Class Two (17th of June): Before Class (Dancing lessons, hopefully)
Class Three (24th of June): Before Class (Coffee and spice)
Class Three (24th of June): Break Time (Getting to know the Chimeric Professor)
Class Four (1st of July): Time With the Teacher (Aspirations)
Class Four (1st of July): After Class (The Musical)
Class Five (8th of July): Activity (Wood-pulp Aircrafts)
Class Six (15th of July): After Class (Mission: Impossible Theme Plays)
Class Seven (22nd of July): Activity (The Three Truths Game)
Class Seven (22nd of July): After Class (Homework | Point of no Return)
Class Eight (29th of July): Activity (Too Tired to Love)
Class Eight (29th of July): Activity (We All Fall Apart and Have Projects)
Class Ten (12th of August): Activity (Plans Made, Plans Unmade)
Class Ten (12th of August): After Class (Priorities)
Class Eleven (19th of August): Speak with the Academic (This Plan Is Unnecessarily Convoluted)
Class Eleven (19th of August): Commit Your Final Exam (Workplace Incident Report)
Class Eleven (19th of August): OOC (The Mycologist's Slide Presentation which You Didn't Get to See)
Class Twelve (28th of August): Celebrate! (The Companion in Porcelain...)
Class Twelve (28th of August): Celebrate! (...doesn't have favourites.)
Class Twelve (28th of August): Celebrate! (But he has social anxiety.)

Citizen File: The Soft-Eyed Mycologist ((Character infopost))
Citizen File: The Somewhat-Eerie Man ((Character infopost))

Current Location: The Medusa's Head

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 thou 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]

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

Person: The Grey Recluse
Alias: Kelly, Kellijah Erichard Silverquill
Referred to as: He/him/his
Age: Somewhere between 25 and permanent death. Closer to the latter, you'd wager
Species: Human
Identifying features: Tall in height and lacking in weight. Of sharp, angular features, scarred lips, and greying brown hair. Notably dressed in shades of white, black and grey, solemnly adorned with a silver circlet and and ivory or steel jewellery.
Residency: In the Half-Restored Town-House, not far from Ladybones Road
Most often encountered at (in descending order of likelihood): The University, Concord Square, an antique shop or second-hand bookshop.
What a Londoner has probably heard: Doctor Silverquill's youngest, right? Was he fired from the hospital or had he left on his own? It is unclear. He still hasn't found a suitable spouse, but then again his prospects would be better were he to join the Church...

Current Mood: melancholy

Person: The Somewhat-Eerie Man
Alias: (Poor) Edward, Looming Nightmare, Red Mask of Woe
Referred to as: He/him/his
Age: Late 30's (?)
Species: Human (partially nightmare?)
Identifying features: Tall and slender built, usually dressed in form-concealing clothes. Notable for curly shoulder-length hair of bleach-blond colour that looks like (but is confirmed not to be) a badly kept wig, and ice-blue eyes with serpentine irises. Most often seen wearing a long black coat and a red Melpomene mask. Very economic in movement, currently unknown if capable of relaxing. Within the domain of Parabola he projects an aura of dread and horror. Known to move too quickly for his size and have the grip of iron shackles. His voice occasionally changes pitch entirely.
Residency: The Nightmare-Orphanage of Parabola
Most often encountered at (in descending order of likelihood): Your most terrifying dreams; other people's nightmares; in the reflection, just behind you.
What a Londoner has probably heard: Your neighbour has dreamed of the Red Mask of Woe again. She has not slept for five days.

Current Mood: asleep

Person: The Soft-Eyed Mycologist
Alias: Advocate in Apocyan, Kitty, Locksmith, Surya
Referred to as: He/him/his
Age: Early 40's (The looks ae deceiving, it is middle 40's now)
Species: Human, cat (legally)
Identifying features: Of average human weight and height. Dark skin. Soft face and eyes, prominent nose. Dark hair, long, straight (often in loose queue). Notably accessorized with large piercings, dominantly (but not exclusively) in ears, clothed in light teal or blue. Almost never seen without his large golden pince-nez.
Residency: Within the Bazaar, beyond the doors of ivory. Just search for the cavity with religious scriptures everywhere.
Most often encountered at (in descending order of likelihood): The Medusa's Head, The Bazaar (see: Residency), Benthic College (Department of Cryptobotany and Subterranean Mycology), any religious congregation.
What a Londoner has probably heard: This man has been the editor of Wild and Domesticated Mushrooms of London for the past eight years and is presumed responsible for the newer editions of this book having double the page count of the original. This name might pop up if you ask for a locksmith in Medusa's Head.

Current Mood: awake

Author

Tolpen

I have AO3!

The first rule of writing your bio is to have fun and be yourself

You have reached Tolpen. Tolp is still figuring out Dreamwidth and is currently using it to role-play the Soft-Eyed Mycologist, a Fallen London character (see sticky entry). A larger crew might appear, eventually.
Tolpen uses ne/nem/neir neopronouns when feeling fancy, and he/she/they when not. Ne occasionally writes stuff on AO3 under the same name.
Among neir interests belong (in no particular order) necromancy, murder mysteries, TTRPGs, crocheting, toxicology, and pretending ne is a man with a mid-life crisis and a job of keeping the reality together online.
Oh, and ne is still a Homestuck fan in this time and age, gods help us all.

Most Used Tags

character infopost - 2 uses
cw: drowning - 1 use
fallen london - 13 uses
mushrooms of london - 10 uses
of masks and men - 4 uses
ooc - 2 uses
rp - 10 uses

Recent Activity

You have sought out the Soft-Eyed Mycologist (Inbox)
A dream of cold and warm [Night from 20th to 21st of October]
The Much Anticipated Dinner [Friday 10th of October]
The Shadow of the Orphanage
The Journey of the Magi
Marsh Beasts, 21st of August
A Tour Through the Laboratory, Somewhen Between 8th and 14th of July
A Place of Agreeable Tea, 24th of June
Having a Recurring Dream: The Journey of the Magi
You have sought out the Soft-Eyed Mycologist ((RP Archive for Summer 2025))
Having a Recurring Dream: The Journey of the Magi
An Encounter in the Veilgarden, 24th of June
Citizen File: The Grey Recluse
Citizen File: The Somewhat-Eerie Man
Citizen File: The Soft-Eyed Mycologist

Style Credit

Base style: Abstractia by chiming
Theme: Deep Forest by nornoriel

Tolpen's Dreamwidth

Temporarily the Soft-Eyed Mycologist's Domain

Recent Entries

Pinned: You have sought out the Soft-Eyed Mycologist (Inbox)

A dream of cold and warm [Night from 20th to 21st of October]

The Much Anticipated Dinner [Friday 10th of October]

The Shadow of the Orphanage

The Journey of the Magi

Marsh Beasts, 21st of August

A Tour Through the Laboratory, Somewhen Between 8th and 14th of July

A Place of Agreeable Tea, 24th of June

Having a Recurring Dream: The Journey of the Magi

You have sought out the Soft-Eyed Mycologist ((RP Archive for Summer 2025))

Having a Recurring Dream: The Journey of the Magi

An Encounter in the Veilgarden, 24th of June

Citizen File: The Grey Recluse

Citizen File: The Somewhat-Eerie Man

Citizen File: The Soft-Eyed Mycologist

Author

The first rule of writing your bio is to have fun and be yourself

Most Used Tags

Recent Activity

Style Credit