Tolpen's Dreamwidth

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."

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.

((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

((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 [Tuesday Morning, July 8] (Wood-pulp Aircrafts)
Class Six [Tuesday Morning, July 15] (Mission: Impossible Theme Plays)

Citizen File ((Character infopost))

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.