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As a Professor in Benthic, the Chimeric one's office could be easily found not far from where the Correspondence classes are held. When found inside the door will be unlocked, but when outside a helpful sign will be hung on the door asking to deliver any message under the door. It's usual to feel there are already many waiting in here, but the Professor swears they're dutifully read and taken into account. It'll be easier to find them in their lab, though, also within Benthic premises. Their dwelling outside the University isn't of public domain, but those entrusted with the information could be directed to a house precariously placed high at Watchmaker's Hill, not far from the Observatory but luckily not too near either.

The Chimeric Professor thinks sometimes on putting a timetable, but the prospect of having to follow it (and having to deal with the Treachery of Clocks' shenanigans) dissuade them each time.

It is the 26th of December, a day after Christmas. The Chimeric Professor received the False-Dusk submerged in their house's amber basin that today more ressembled an amber pool after a little creative use of a spatial Treachery, inspired by the Soft-Eyed Mycologist's recent abuses of the flexible spots found in natural Law. They'll have to thank him later.

It was a beautiful sight, were there someone to witness it. The Professor laying against the edge, scaled arms keeping their upper torso above the molten amber. Their long multicolored hair fell down their back and melted in the amber, which became dyed in swirling spirals, rainbows flowing in chaotic, unpredictable patterns. Something big moves within the thick boiling fluid: A long, muscular tail coiled around itself to fill all available volume, twisted and bent where the bones were being extended and shaped correctly to allow for a correct structure, coupled with muscles capable of a crawling locomotion foregoing legs entirely, neurons inervating the whole construct. The scales were all white at the moment, as their owner was still undecided about the most adequate color.

There was also a letter, neatly placed on top of the amber room's chair and away from the splash area. Against the white paper, blood-red ink was morbidly eye-catching, specially when paired with the Gothic Paintress' (the Honorable Industrialist's mother, who was all too amused by the Neathy custom regarsing monickers) elegantly sharp calligraphy, looking as if the letters themselves had wounded the paper. Although the words written hurted more than any cut. Not only her health got worse this winter, but also the Industrialist had returned gravely ill from a business trip to Manchester and will need to be confined to bed for a long time according to the family doctor. This sadly meant his traditional visit for his birthday and New Year won't happen this year. Closed with a heartfelt apology, good wishes for Christmas, and a shipment of season-appropriate morsels to enjoy.

On their own, of course.

The Professor had been already waiting for news from the Surface, usually due before Christmas Eve. This meant they've been anxious and restless for a few days now. Lack of sleep had always been a heavy burden on them, their eyes now looking haggard. Or, well, once looking so, for now they were in the Professor's hand, being turned and squeezed like anti-stress balls. They won't be needing them tonight. Finally, one was set aside for sweet Delilah to have a treat, as she's been left wanting for too long already, and the other they placed inside their own mouth, feeling its gelatinous texture with their tongue before piercing into it with a fang, releasing the vitreous humors within, delighting on this transgression of the self, chewing down their dark thoughts and feelings, reducing them to mere pulp then swallowing.

They're still hungry. The void left within craving more company. Fortunately the shapeling expects visitors to come over soon. Friends they know from long ago, who need to fill a void as well. To forget and be forgotten. To use and be used. The Professor can offer exactly that.

Blue, they finally decide. A gradual fading of the black from the torso into lighter shades of blue. That'll do it.

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."

The Chimeric Professor spent most of the day's duration excusing their foreseeable absence from appointments and assorted duties, informing those that were no obligation, and finishing those projects and compromise that were going to be easily finished today anyhow. This, of course, did nothing to improve their ungodly sleepy state. Luckily the Grand Détour's crew was already assembled and expected to be ready in a moment's notice due to the Maven and Devil's extraordinary circumstances, so the airship could take off that very afternoon. Destination: The Citadel-Necropolis that a recently Fallen group of French tracklayers named the Sous.

The journey itself was fortunately clear from the most dangerous encounters one could have in the Roof, but allowed to witness an uncommon wonder of nature: The Bullcombs, a network of warrens burrowed into the Roof by the strongest wild Miser-Bulls as part of some esoteric mating ritual. A huge-sized hive full of airship-apt tunnels, engraved in scintillating glim fragments. Now that they're admiring them from within (as it is a very convenient shortcut, if one knows how to navigate it, just like the crew's Starved Shepherd) they wish the Socialite, Maven and Devil could have seen this as well, but the Bullcombs can only be found at this side of the Miser-Roads, sadly.

Finally, the Grand Détour is moored in the narrow, certainly precarious entrance of the Sous. A looming complex of solemnly yet very narrowly carved stalactites, plated with bone like an armor, or exoskeleton. Only one mooring post of recent construction can be found, property of the Inverse Bargemen from Burgundy, but luckily it doesn't see much traffic. This doesn't mean the airship can remain here, so the Professor gives instructions (and a generous amount of Stuivers) for the crew to take leave in Ghent until a flare signals the moment to return, to be expected the next day not early.

Holdeverything in hand, when the Professor steps inside the necropolis' entry chamber the first thing they notice is the silence: Absolutely perfect, broken only by their own breath and heartbeat. A silence defeated by every step taken in this bone-paved floor yet regaining all lost territory the moment after. The second thing is the light, faint enough to allow for the usefulness of eyes yet forbidding long-distance sight, each chamber invisible from the previous. The third thing are, of course, the bones. There are bones everywhere. Either arranged in neat, artistical compositions like murals or tiles, or scattered chaotically all over the place, no matter if so ancient they could be mistaken as rocks or so recent they still keep a hint of lively bright red. Niches, tombstones, sacrophagi... Ebony, marble, granite... Black, white, grey... Weeping angels, pagan symbols and effigies, epitaphs... A place where only the mournful and funereal has place, and every place is dedicated to death.

And yet, there is a hint of a nostalgic golden light once meant to bring hope, up above... Painfully close, thankfully far enough. No one who has seen it before has any doubt of what it is: Sunlight. Final death. Permeating through the thin Treacherous last layer of defense against Judgement. A promise of an end to all things beneath the Roof, but not yet... Not yet.

There was supposed to be a clade tending to this place, but it isn't any hint of recent inhabitation to be found. The only footsteps among the dust and bone are their own, this light needs no tender, and whoever arranged the bones has definitely not done so recently. The Professor was preparing themself for an aimless search until, with a flick of the tongue, they detected a hint: Incense. Floral and sweet, like the orchids their mother liked to grow in her little garden... The mere thought made their chest ache more than any of these monuments to grief could ever have.

Following the scent, through one precariously cartilaginous bridge, the Professor finds one Starved woman. Short and lean, four-armed, eyeless (and even socketless) and even noseless, though they don't doubt she would have other means to appreciate her aromatic work. Her skull is elongated and grows long hair, a small mouth close to the chin. She had noticed them long before, for she was already facing them when they arrived. Calm and silent, she starts gesturing in the four-armed version of the pan-Starved sign language. They're not familiar to one spoken in a lack of eyes, but she is patient, and waits to be understood repeating when necessary.

"Do not vibrate your outer mind, groundling." Which meant to keep silent, but of course a shapeling society wouldn't be so rude as to suppose the interlocutor would speak through a mouth, or even words.

After the Professor signed in acquiescence, the woman continued.

"Greetings. Our thoughts can commingle as long as no noise is involved. Death/rest is not to be disrespected/disturbed. I am the caretaker/gardener/mortician of this patient/place/body. It is a solitary task/duty, one not many witness. What is your wish/crave/need? Looking for someone's place of final rest, or your own? If it's the Killing Light you seek, I will advise otherwise."

So it's true... Sunlight, this close... Yet another exit to the Surface? It's worth knowing, but not what they're looking for.

"Knowledge/fitness is what I wish/crave/need. I am afflicted/wounded/poisoned by a mistake/misshape, I need to understand how deep, and the cure."

"Why do you seek/milk healing from a tomb? Death is no mistake/misshape, and can't be adapted against forever."

The Gravetender's body language remained always perfectly polite and light-hearted.

"It is a mistake/misshape born from the Memorious Guild/Clade of Corpse-Weavers, and the arts/crafts they learned/assimilated/shaped from this place. I seek to better understand how those were born/made."

At this point the Gravetender's distaste is evident. Not towards the Professor, for they couldn't know better if they met the Guild before the Sous, but towards the Guild as a whole, and their distorted, twisted ways. She makes this extensively clear, even without moving a single finger.

What follows is a lengthy explanation (made longer to clarify the alienness of some concepts expressed by the Gravetender, for it is true the Inuit have several meaningful names for the snow) on the principles and processes behind the Tapestry-Moth breeding, life and ultimate final demise, a double death for a doubled being. This being the Professor, and the Gravetender being patient and knowledgeable, meant that the conversation stretched and branched for hours, and extensive notes were taken.

In the end, it was getting late into the night when the Gravetender asked for the specific ailment the Professor is worried about. They informed her that it can only be revealed in a shaping vat, and so she accepted to let them use it together this night. The process was already natural for the Professor, but even more so for the Gravetender, who also could teach a thing or two on the process, specially regarding the bones and the intricacies of their connection to the whole. She commended on the expansive evolutionary approach of the Professor, they commended in return on her accretive mineraloid method.

The problem was made apparent right at the end... When the Professor's scalesilk wings manifested and, shortly afterwards, withered and faded away as ashen flakes of nothing. The Gravetender was aghast, and needed some encouraging to start speaking after remaining in motionless thinking for a while.

"You have betrayed/poisoned your own death. Milked/harvested out of you and given a different body to be spliced/implanted. You have already experienced your death, and lived on. This strains both Judgement and Treachery, and thus you are left without support. This superposition/paradox/self-parasitism aches for resolution, and all things tend to the less expensive/effortful/ordered result."

Realization hit like a femur's epiphysis on the back of the Professor's head.

"Which means death... Final, absolute death..." Was their defeated, terrified conclusion. "How long until the superposition/paradox/self-parasitism is resolved?"

"Four False-Seasons/twelve Moon-Cycles/a year since its inception/making/birth." Was the absolute, certainly delivered answer.

The Professor allowed all tension to dissipate from their muscles as if an airship's balloon had just been pierced and deflated, damning a whole crew to a certain demise. Laying flatly on their back, where the wretched things inserted and left their signature, ever-present absence. Their moth was born March 29th, they could never forget the date. Which means, they'll be dead for good in four months and a week...

"Is there something that can be done? The Professor starts cycling through all the signed iterations of the sentence known to them. Suddenly, patience was no longer an option.

"To rest, and assimilate the information you now have. I shared all knowledge I have related to your situation. If a solution exists, its ingredients can already be found within you. Give your mind time. If you do so, come the morning I'll show you the first step in the road to assimilate your death, and make it yours, so it doesn't take anything from you that you don't wish."

There was no possible discusion, her body language was adamant at that. And, certainly, the Professor wanted nothing more than curl up and sob tearless cries, allow their feelings to storm so they can settle, and do what they do better: To find out after having fucked around (and up).

It is in a silent, dark niche that the Professor finds their rest, successfully shaped by the Gravetender's indications to feel it comfortable and agreeable. The dinner was a surprising mixture of strange fruits and avian meats, sourced from one 'Antipelago' the Professor would likely not have any time to explore at all now. The sleep, as promised by the Gravetender, was dreamless.

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...]

Come Friday the 7th of November, the Chimeric Professor made certain to not have any plans pending. An important visit was to come, and they wanted to be free and at home. That doesn't mean they have to be idle though. After all, there are still problems to be solved, and they have a little lab in which to refine a project already developed in the more equipped university one.

Serrik, the Rubbery Dragon, has been a great help with this one. The one currently covering from fingertips to elbow of their left hand. Of course they had to sacrifice that arm's scales for it to work properly, at least for now, but it'll be worth it and they know it!

Although it would be easier if their hand hadn't gone numb after that much prickling with the needle. That ammounts to two violant brushstrokes per 7% of body surface for maximum physiological effect, or three penpricks per 7% for minimum physiological effect. Echelon keeps insisting on adding apocyan, but that's an eccentricity. Yes, could help keep sensory memory but violant has to be stabilized first before being certain they won't collide.
Who needs to wait half a century for the Rule of Nine to be established?

The Chimeric Professor had waited long enough. The ~~Sadistic~~ Sibylline Seamstress asked for some time to have the newborn Pale Sorrows properly ~~conditioned~~ introducted to the Sorrow-Spider way of life. Very well, they gave her that. She had weeks, their husband is gone, the Roof-melancholy is going, their soul is back... And they want their children. No more waiting.

There's a reason the Professor's house is settled near the Observatory at Watchmaker's. But of course that's not a thing the Professor told their husband, nor a thing their husband needed to know. He would have not approved, but back then there was already no other choice. The Industrialist believed the Professor's newfound energy and strength shortly upon reaching the Neath was part of the esoteric charm of the place and a show of the early improvement due to the amber treatment. He was wrong.

Now that debt is settled. The Professor could forever forget about the spider-cults and go live a life free from bonds. Yet they can't. Those are their children now, and they will see them raised right.

This time they have the upper hand. And wrapped around that upper hand it's a scrap of Vesturian silk, gorgeous in royal purple, gold and silver. When they reach the Observatory's door the blind guard of course stops them, but not a single word is needed. Just a simple, polite handshake and the door is opened with a respectful bow.

The inside of the building deserves no description. Only the fact that upon reaching a corridor with good enough acoustics, a very clear message full of feeling echoed several rooms around.

"Sada Samhar! What have you done with my children?!"

The answer arrives in the form of an almost silence whisper of silk against air, and the claimed pressence reaching for the Professor. Calm, composed, veil no longer covering her missing eye, being perfectly visible how her own little Sorrow-Spider guide, Du'a, is nestled within the empty socket. This provides a vision ninefold in total, pretty useful for many things.

"Here already? I thought you'd be busier with your classes, projects, friends and lovers that have taken all your conviction away..."

"I've found a gap in my schedule. Now I have to squeeze in two beautiful creatures who have been born from my very entrails and eyes, who deserve to be there as well. So show me where you keep them."

"Inshallah." It's her answer, before making a polite gesture to follow her, towards another room. The walk is silent, not as tense as one would expect but in waiting. Nothing to be said is more important than reaching the twins at the moment.

The aforementioned can be found in what could pass for a nursery in a spider-cult. A big room, with a single big window, plenty of free space, always supervised by one elder Sorrow-Spider matron and two Motherling widows. The Professor was glad to see old Mother Akknai was still around looking healthy and takin care of the little ones, being famous for bonding so deeply that she even forms War-Councils to take revenge on those who killed one of her charges. The nursery is crowded with young spiders, allowing them to spend time socializing and interacting with the diverse toys scattered around and of course with each other, developing both spider languages and the way to communicate to and from humans via Sorrowspeech, some of them even learning human languages. The many bridges, strands and patterns of cobwebs also show the weaving having place. Squirming bundles here and there also show the litle ones are not left hungry.

Akarek and Nizrek are easy to spot among the crowd, though. They're the only white ones and the biggest due to their special , hanging up in the ceiling, weaving their signature frost-silk, icicle-drops gleaming under the gaslight, giving an appearance of stars hanging in a dark space... Perhaps it was the intention, reminders of their homeland. Or home-lack-of-land.

The Seamstress was already up to call them herself, but the Professor was faster, a series of clicking noises coming out their mouth. It would have been difficult to hear among the children's hubbub, but somehow the pair of Pale Sorrows noticed and started crawling down. Akarek's movements faster yet more deliberate, like a predator in pursuit; while Nizrek's were slower and stylish, as if confidently walking around its own web (which it is, but even outside of it). The delighted shapeling bent over to welcome the not-so-little dears in their arms. Despite being truly big now, spiders keep being light enough to be lifted without too much effort, and gifted with enough balance not to fall so easily.

Akarek gesticulates greetings with its palps, prompting a nuzzle. Then Nizrek surprises with an unsteady but understandable "Hello" which has the Professor kissing its prosoma just above the last row of eyes, so proud.

"They are learning fast, and growing doubly so..." The Seamstress starts, looking at them with delight. "Despite being bigger than any other spider their age or even many older ones, they are still newborn and need to learn the first movements. Instinct is strong, though... Their woven patterns are so beautiful... And we have identified some coincidences with actual star maps. Our hypotheses was right. The ancestral memory can be awakened through amber. If we could contact the Weaver of Roads and Doors again-"

"Enough, Sada... These are not resources but children. Prodigious, yes, but as much alive and free as any other newborn." The Professor says, starting to coo the little ones. "Aren't you, my lovelies? Such a joy is seeing you grow big and strong and so so intelligent! I've been too late to properly meet you. The first time I was exhausted! Yes, I was! It was hard work to get you in here, yes it was, but so worth it! My beautiful talented ones... Maybe one day you could properly meet the friends that helped as well?"

The Seamstress gets closer to caress the little ones' exoskeletons, her touch now free from her gossamer gloves. When the sacred allows itself to be touched, you better don't let any obstacle get in between. There's a smile, meeting the Professor's enamored eyes.

"Yes... Yes they are."

The Chimeric Professor had been working in the development of a method to treat altered memories through the purest solid form of Apocyan that can be found in the Neath: The 'blue' Scintillack from the Principles of Coral. Said process involved communion with higher alien consciousnesses, refining a hazardous formula into a less harmful version, training the method of shaping amber without physical touch to microscopical degrees, and the presence of a weird alien pelagic cat.

All of it is already provided and in display, the moment arrived, and the notes were delivered to those that showed interest in either witnessing or being subject to the process. The Professor's laboratory is open for visits! Start improving your memory now!

It was Sunday the 26th of October, the Honorable Industrialist's time in the Neath was about to end once again (albeit with the promise to return, always with the promise to return), and the Chimeric Professor wanted to show him one of the greatest and most recently discovered wonders in the Neath; the Industrialist in return wanted to solve one of the Professor's most pressing problems before departing, and so both made their way into the Upper Airs aboard Le Grand Dètour.

Destination: Ghent, heart and crown of Risen Burgundy.

Just witnessing the place from afar was a sight to remember. The whole medieval city, gilded and proud surrounded by walls limiting stained glass forests, the many domes of its cathedrals shining each in every color the minerals could provide, the Gravensteen unbeaten atop its hill, all of it bathed in the golden light radiating from the Dream of Glory... And inverted, firmly held in the underside of a Roof antimesa.

The experience of crossing the borders of the Inversion, with the airship suddenly adapting to the radical change in gravity, is yet another unique experience but less recommendable to experience once again. Mooring is easy enough, the traffic increasing steadily over time, and thus the Burgundian protocol for receiving airships refined day after day.

Of course, it is Sunday. The whole of Burgundy rested by divine command, the only movement along the city being to or from the Holy Tangle and the many diversions offered to both wealthy and pauper. This meant the streets (be them of noble, bourgeois or peasant use) were mostly for them both, free to roam hand in hand... And, in the case of the Industrialist, holding another thing: A very special bottle, holding a very special substance of an ethereal blue with orange undertones, just like a sunrise in the sea. One he can't believe to be holding, but will have a hard time letting go. Unless, of course, it is for the intended goal.

A goal made apparent when they arrive in the vicinity of the ruins of one Elephant Keep, where the Diptych-Bearing Moth made nest after being invited to do so by the Soft-Eyed Mycologist. The proximity of the Professor is enough to beckon the man-sized lepidopteran to take flight, emblazoned wings showing all colors to the sky (from the Inversion, the Unterzee very much looked like a dark sky speckled with reflected False-Stars) and finally taking ground on the Professor's cupped hands. There's cuddles, there would be tears... There are antennae kisses, too. The Industrialist never believed he could fall in love again so deeply and feel such a powerful distress over someone's mental health at the same time, but this is just a custom in each and every Neathy visit. This line of thought is sealed with a kiss, lovingly requited.

Only the last step of this plan remained... To take the soul bottle in their hand and, after a long, fascinated look into the almost face-shaped ethereal cloud, uncork it.

The Chimeric Professor's soul fled freely from the bottle, spinning once, twice then thrice in the air. After a moment to process, the sunrise-colored wisp approached softly the Industrialist's face and 'kissed' his lips before approaching now both Professor and Moth. It drew a colorful spiral around them, before being promptly split in two of its own volition and reabsorbed by both iterations of themself.

There was a moment of ecstasy, of joyful laugh, of brightness returning to senses and thoughts, of feelings cascading after being asleep... Yes, one can live without a soul. With enough impulse, one can even look the part. But after growing once again used to a numb way of performing oneself, the difference feels like being born again.

There is dancing, and an improvised song, synchronized both humans and a moth in erratic motions more guided by feeling than rythm... But, of course, there are better places in which to develop such activities. Ballrooms and parties and feasts and such to conquer and make theirs to celebrate this marriage once again, no matter place, age or circumstances. They have dressed the part for a reason, after all.

It finally came the time. It was the Saturday 19th at noon, and despite it being expected, the moment came without warning and progressing fast. Perhaps a blessing from the pre-implantational amber treatment, although right now the Chimeric Professor would describe it as a curse.

The Honorable Industrialist's first reaction was panic, then anxiety, and then remembering there were friends he could call for help, thanking all the gods above or below. Of course, this means the Soft-Hearted Maven and the Brash Devil. Who better to assist a strange, arthropod-hybrid birth? (Practice for the future, more difficult case they'll be facing together, but sshh).

The very pale and trembling Industrialist swiftly directs them towards the Professor's bedroom, where they were trying to get comfortable despite every effort of a body which is trying real hard to get out what has inside as well as the efforts of two bodies trying real hard to get out from the one they're in. They are in pain, anxious, and loudly screaming and complaining and holding themself close and trying not to do any of the previous things and focus on the process. A process for which they have a sorely unprepared body despite the obvious presence of some modifications in the matter.

They can't risk the use of more amber, because at this point any attempt at shaping risks the merging of both the Professor's and the spiders' life essences, which is what this process attempted to prevent from the beginning, so when the complications start arising (too rigid exoskeletons, as the successive moults have been bypassed by the viviparous development; the two of them are competing instead of collaborating while getting out; the legs get tangled and form knots stopping the process; there is the risk the little ones grow nervous and start biting...) it is the trio alone (the Industrialist already fainted once, so better not to have more things to worry about meanwhile) with the Professor's physical endurance and willpower.

It doesn't look good... It starts looking worse right before another person opens the bedroom door, perfectly silent until that very moment. It is the Sibylline Seamstress, offering her expertise on the matter due to her interest on this experiment being successful. The Professor wasn't happy with her presence, thus the Maven, and doubly so the Devil. There were suggestions (Like ripping the Seamstress' throat out, courtesy of the Devil), there were countersuggestions (Such an act could stress the Professor and their comfort comes first, courtesy of the Maven), a backtrack on suggestions (Seeing the Seamstress' threat ripped out would be quite comforting honestly, as said by the Professor) and the offer of an alternative (The Seamstress insisting on her being here only to help, and being able to provide much needed experience and knowledge to assist).

In the end, and after seriously pondering the option of managing on their own and have the Seamstress come pick the newborns up when she returned from the Boatman, the trio agreed on letting her work. And she worked well. A skilled and concise instructor, her guidance quickly improves the situation and successfully puts the spiders at ease, helps the Professor relax (in fact, they talk and act as if they've collaborated closely several times in the past, in friendlier terms) and suggests techniques and medicines to deal with the more severe physical troubles, with the invaluable help of the Maven and the Devil.

In the end, the result is a very exhausted and drained Professor and two Sorrow-Spider hybrids. These are of a pristine white color, chitin smooth and lacking setae (but not sensitivity), covered in what looks like a web of icy threads from which little transparent shiny beads hang, like morning dew trapped in cobwebs. They're of the same frightening size: half a meter long and around 30 centimeters wide at the cephalotorax, with much longer yet thin legs, both exactly identical in all but one thing: One's eyes are red, while the other's are purple. Now that the instinctive push of birth has been fulfilled, they await calm and observant, likely tired and hungry too. The names were already decided and now bestown out loud: Akarek the red-eyed and first to be born, and Nizrek the purple-eyed and last. The Seamstress praises the choice, for they mean "The Hidden" and "The Cunning" respectively, good wishes for the newborn.

The Seamstress pronounced the debt settled, and prepared to take the little pale ones with her, but the Professor stopped her with a rotund pronouncement: They have successfully devised and survived a ritual of Sorrow-Spider birthing, after being initiated in the cult, so they are officially a Motherling Widow, and this comes with rights to be respected. And using those rights they enforce their ddemands: The newborn won't ever be used as cannon fodder for whichever plans they have, the Professor will have the right to know their location and visit them if they so wish, and when the time comes for them to Council they will belong to the same one and not set apart. The Seamstress doesn't argue, in fact looking somewhat pleased with the outcome, and accepts the conditions. Shortly after, she and the pale spiderlings are gone.

The Industrialist can then return, severely agitated from the unsettling screams, words and sounds he could overhear from the adjacent room... Reaching to hold the Professor close as they started dozing off to sleep. Of course they thanked a thousand times over their friends for coming, and providing so much needed comfort, support and help. They don't last long in the waking world, exhaustion taking its toll, so it is the Industrialist's turn to express profuse thanks and extend an invitation for a hearty lunch, consisting if they please of monkfish à l'armoricaine.

It wouldn't be until later, when afternoon merges with evening, that the Professor would wake up again. Exhibiting no little worries nor regrets, but also a healthy dose of relief. This chapter is now close, and it is time to write a new one.

[Disclaimer: The Honorable Industrialist's thoughts and dialogues will be displayed in English for the sake of the vast majority of anglophone readers, but the aforementioned character wants such readers to know his contempt for the English language is majuscule and won't use it outside the strictly necessary situations. Despite this quality, the Industrialist knows how to properly speak the language, if somewhat slow and with a heavy Spanish accent, due to the obvious lack of practice]

The Honorable Industrialist sat on a carriage he had just rented and in its privacy allowed himself a tired sigh. Since the last time he crossed the Cumaean Canal, so many things had happened back at the Surface. His mother's health keeps getting worse, death of President Sagasta (as if Cánovas wasn't enough), another thankfully failed attempt at Carlist insurrection, the death of more than 800 people due to the most destructive storm seen in the Cantabrian in generations, followed by the Bermeo fires... And he better stops counting, or the headache will return. Reconstruction is going well. It will take time, but the investments are placed, most of the factories and houses were intact (the fire was kept to the harbor), even the King (Alfonso XIII, such an asshole) visited and placed a memorial plaque and all! The Surface can wait for him a couple of days...

The voyage itself was as insufferable as it could. A boat full of spies thinking themselves so witty and subtle yet being more than obvious (at least they dropped the Koloman Republic nonsense, but there are certain tattoos that just can't be concealed), smugglers trying to sell you something, religious fanatics wanting to either know the underworld or destroy it, and even the most obvious devils returning from some sort of... Vacation? At least the food was provided by the Italians, who knew one thing or two about proper seasoning.

Then once down here the process passed through a painstaking customs inspection in which of course nothing was found, for the true luggage came by three different smuggling networks and had to be gathered in different places before being loaded into the carriage then setting route towards the Chimeric Professor's house. Or, he tries to remind himself, the house of both, no matter how infrequently he acted like it. It was a good thing he didn't have to warn when he was coming, for he will always find his beloved spouse in the same place, and they will always be as rejoiced to see him as he to see them.

The Industrialist didn't even reach the top of the Hill before Noa started barking so loud she could be heard all the way to the Observatory. This made him smile. The charming spindlewolf only barked for two reasons: When playing, which she doesn't at home, or when one of her owners returns home after spending too long outside. The Professor within understood the message instantly, and so they jumped from the sofa they were languishing and revising notes on (grave mistake, the extra passengers being too big and loud by now for such movement) and ran as fast as they could towards the door. It was open right before the Industrialist had the chance to knock, just as every time.

His precious, most beloved spouse hadn't followed the expected schedule of modifications (has there been a reversion? Worrying), they were most obviously pregnant (doubly worrying, specially knowing they didn't want anything to do with natural children for fear of spreading their familial disease), and exhibited the most obvious traits of soullessness (again? And recent) added to natural melancholy, exhaustion and having witnessed more Horrors than usual. Of course little details could be conveyed via post for fear of it being intercepted and used for some nefarious end, but the Industrialist has the impression the Professor wasn't just being prudent but also hiding details on purpose.

None of this actually matters, for there is a much more important thing to do right now and nothing nor anyone could keep him from it.

A long, close, warm and tight hug between lovers, just getting to feal each other's breathing, heartbeat, skin, scent and presence. Them both have been dreaming with this moment for so, so long... And once again, here it is. As it will be again, and again, no end in sight.

There's no way to measure how long they spent like that, with an overly excited spindlewolf running circles around them and trying to place loving licks here and there, and with a very curious apocyan lampcat observing as if something had changed in the universe on a fundamental matter, but then again cats are famous for being overly dramatic.

"Here you are..." The Professor said, burying their face on their husband's shoulder. He is still an inch taller than them, just like they like it. "Am I not dreaming, my love? Please tell me I'm not..."

The Industrialist didn't need words to let his lips prove how far from a dream this moment was, for no dream could ever hope to bring such happiness.

"Are you convinced now, my life?" The Industrialist asked, playful.

"Never again will I doubt..." The Professor jokingly lied in answer.

"Now... Will you tell me what happened?" Very obviously meaning a very specific thing.

"I promise you there is a more sensible and logic answer to this than you think." The Professor attempted to defend themself.

"Allow me to doubt it." The knowledge of his spouse spoke through the Industrialist's lips.

"It is related to spiders."

"Way to prove me right."

Understandably, a burst of sincere, fond laughs ensued. But finally they could speak again.

"Okay, I'll tell you everything. Just come inside, get comfortable, and I'll prepare some-"

"If you give me tea it's going off the window and you behind."

"Peach brandy." The Professor finished, dead serious.

The Industrialist sighed. "Right... Of course. I promised, and I'll deliver."

That Sunday morning, noon, evening and night was spent in explanations coming from both sides of the Earth's crust, an absolute feast for the two of them (the Industrialist is an excellent cook) and many (yet very careful) shows of deep love, powered by some sips of eternity. A promise, yet to be delivered, to be rejoined once again and forever that time.

It's been now a few days since the first class of the Subterranean Mycology course, having both seen already known pleasant faces and new ones, promising a bright future ahead. Time went by as joyful as it could be, the extra guests within having grown more agreeable as well as in size, and the experiments currently in development advancing as expected.

False-Sunset fell hours ago, the efforts of the day start to feel heavier... The matters at hand can be left for tomorrow. And with that pleasant thought, the Chimeric Professor got ready for bed after a pleasant walk around the Hill with their spindlewolf (no, Noa, you will be sleeping on your bed tonight).

Ever since the Sibylline Seamstress got satisfied with the progress of their shared deal, the Professor's sleep has been mostly devoid of dreams, some even being pleasant every now and then. Maybe there will be luck tonight as well...

[Start An Unwanted Awareness]

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That night's dream was certainly something. The kind of Nightmare that exists to have you give a thousand thanks for waking up. As soon as the Professor opened their eyes they jumped out of the bed, cast the window blinds open, got all candles running, and essentially tried to banish any and all darkness from their home, as if to make a second, smaller Varchas. That day's morning walk with Noa was way longer, to the spindlewolf's delight, and was dedicated to see as many people as possible, and check them free of any ink or overwhelming despair.

That night was blessed with an absence of dreams, as did the night after... A lucky strike that didn't last long, for when the Professor's still wary yet tired eyes closed looking for rest, found their mind falling again into a dreamscape far from their control.

[Start The Impartial Gaze]

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The Professor woke up, feelings complex and conflicted. It was a terrifying dream, but also a source of hope. A promise for all the doubt and judgement to end, but that means a sentence will be dictated. In a week, if the omen is to be trusted. This time, though, the Professor woke up by their husband's side; a more than welcome change, which prompted a tight, fond embrace which the previously asleep Industrialist didn't quite appreciate at first. Then a warm bath followed, and a day spent, among other things, rummaging on the meaning of the dream to come...

The matter was left aside for most of the week's days, focusing instead on the joys, the projects, the rescue of a friend and a monstrous birthing as they happened along the days... Until the day came, the memory returned and with it the nervousness. What would await, in that dark ink-coated version of the world they thought they knew, under the Owl's gaze? Warmth, water, darkness, time, prepare, week... Well. They certainly have bathed before getting in bed, with no light at reach, and had time to prepare for this day of the week. Let's hope this is enough. A final kiss to their husband, closing their eyes... Let sleep take them again.

[Satart The Trial]

The Chimeric Professor wasn't terrified.

Which is a strange first thought to have when one wakes up in their bedroom surrounded by enough Sorrow-Spiders to form a decently-sized Council against which they'd have no hope of winning in a fight.

The Professor's mind was clear, though. They knew that the spiders weren't there to bring them harm, they are too valuable for that (at least now). Also, they know what they had to do to see them gone, and they had taken a determination. They're only a physical tool of intimidation, deployed in case the onirical one failed to get the point across in some fashion.

The thought of the Seamstress having been unable to predict the degree of failure of her dream-threat made the Professor's lips spread in a darkly delighted smile. Tene certainly was such a dear, even after what they did to nem. Curious moment to notice their shades, formerly gifted to nem, were still on their hand, firmly held like a lucky charm against the impending threat.

They reflected on this while they got off the bed and looked around the house to make certain the intruders didn't harm their pets. Luckily all of them were accounted for and scathless: Echelon too indifferent and left to its own devices, Serrik clever enough to reach for the Pale Amber and idly threaten to destroy it if any harm came its way, Delilah too part of the kin to be at risk, keeping close to the Professor as if a guard dog... And speaking of which, Noa was bound to the wall by sticky cobwebs, looking like she tried to defend the house without much of a success. A sigh of resignation escapes her exposed snout.

Calmer knowing no mourning nor revenge were in order, the Professor thought quickly. They could simply accept the Pale Amber within themself, which would render the Mycologist's good-willed effort and the un-shaping suffering useless, and thus couldn't be allowed. They could go out and kidnap some scholar of the Correspondence, there's one going bad, mad and dangerous to know every day... But they refuse to be turned into more of a monster by the Motherlings' plans. Was there any option besides those two?

Yes indeed.

Walking carefully in between the crawlerling swarm, minding not to step on the intruders when they weren't capable of getting out of the way themselves, the Professor made way to their Shaping Room, Delilah by their side, and reached to grab the nodule of Pale Amber, petting Serrik in gratitude for being well and also such a quick thinker. Echelon padded in as well, curious about the new show soon to be witnessed, apocyan eyes and lure shining bright against the faint lights of late-night London and the couple of candles the Professor deemed necessary. Noa will have to be absent of this experience, although the Professor knows she will find forgiveness in her heart.

In the Shaping Room there's a triangle of full-body mirrors, ready to admire one's results. But now they serve for planning. The Professor's hands trail their abdomen, trying to feel the organs underneath. They were born with a womb, one they didn't previously think on putting to use, afraid of passing on the family curse to a blood-related child. And even then, they didn't find the chance to shape it out of them, as if it was a memento to hold onto, or hopes for a better opportunity to arise and finally be in the situation of bestowing the gift of life... Turns out it will have to serve a slightly less wholesome purpose before that.

Such a wonderful, well-designed organ dominated by such an ill-informed mechanism of autonomous decision... Capable of holding a life other than one's own, nourishing it to independence and good health, foreign invasive tissue safely intermingling with the known old self, becoming one diffuse barrier in between two individuals. A barrier impermeable enough to prevent the distasteful result of two different organisms colliding in such an intimate way. In theory. Perhaps with a little informed help it could be that in practice.

Having taken that decision, the Professor turned towards Delilah.

"It is your time to shine in front of your kin, little dear. Take my branded apples, both of them, and sow them for me. If I am to bear anyone's children, I want them to be yours."

The following process is well-known to any londoner, luckily enough. Suffice to say the friendly Sorrow-Spider was skilled and knowledgeable enough to be careful and gentle with her master, claiming eyeball and cutting nerve in a way that could put many a surgeon to shame. While the tame beast got away to have some privacy, the now-blinded Professor organized the necessary amber for the implantation, navigating by muscle memory and alternate senses.

Once the sown eyes were returned, placed conveniently at reach of the hand, the Professor coated their arms in amber and dug their abdominal cavity open... A whole process followed, actually made easier by the lack of sight, trusting the propioceptors blindly always gave the best results. And once the future dark children so wished by the Seamstress were safely held within a pale ambered amnios, and once again hidden from the world by modified (improved) flesh.

This demonstration was enough to have the Sorrow-Spiders leave obediently, as pleased with the outcome as their mistress will be.

And the Professor? Well, they spent a moment releasing, comforting and treating Noa before returning to bed. They could remake their eyes come morning, right now they need to have a good sleep and not to think too much on what they've just done.

The coming days won't be easy at all. Maybe they should have tried with one birth first then the second instead of going forward with two at once. Maybe their hindsight should have woken up with the rest of them instead of right now. But if something can be said of the Chimeric Professor is that they learn from their mistakes.

And oh, they've had a lot of chances to learn.

The night after the Harried and Frazzled Meeting (one has to admit Persephone's gift for naming events), the Chimeric Professor arrived to their home in Watchmaker's Hill and, as usual, found it painfully, hungrily, overwhelmingly lonely.

There was no way to resort to any other's lodgings to spend the night this day, nor they wanted to go and invite someone into theirs at these hours and without a better reason than feeling alone. Thus they gathered all their beloved pets (Noa the Spindlewolf, Delilah the Sorrow-Spider, Serrik the Rubbery Dragon and Spliced Echelon the Lampcat) in their bedroom to form a comfy cuddle pile. Thanks to the added comfort, the Professor was able to fall asleep sinking in a bottomless well of loving companionship.

There is a comfortable, if cold, embrace. Surrounding every direction, spanning well beyond what perception allows. It is viscous, translucent... Vitreous, would be right word. With some specks of color, crimson like only life knows how to be, and an imposing, bright, honey-hued ring high above.

It is pleasant, slow, idle, marked by the rythm of a heartbeat that may be one's own, or coming perfectly coordinated from elsewhere. And you can feel just how little of a creature you are. Safe and encased in this sphere of life, waiting to become bigger, stronger, capable of braving the vast world you can only peek at through a membranose layer. What could be out there for you?

Perhaps the right question would have been who could be out there. For right then two giant, fleshy appendages close around your comfortable enclosure and take it closer to an equally colossal face, staring down towards you.

An eye, facing another.

"So here you were hidden, all this time..." A voice you recognize as belonging to a Sibylline Seamstress calls to you.

You, once known as the Chimeric Professor, now a little spiderling gestating inside an egg.

No, not an egg.

An apple.

"I should have figured out by now that your dreams carried you towards the Hanging Mountains. Ever since the Dream of Glory claimed your corpse, and you embraced the Starved clades..." The comparatively colossal woman squints, tilting her head just a little bit. "And now you are completely at my mercy..."

The Seamstress' other hand raises, slowly... Pointing a threatening, sharp-nailed finger towards the spider-Professor, from the other side of the vitreous humor.

"Consider this your last warning. You killed the child we expected, so now you owe me two." She thrusts the finger right inside, perforating the membrane easily, tip of the nail stopping right before hitting the Professor's defenceless form. "Branded apples, or else..."

It wasn't intended to be an empty threat. In fact, the Sibylline Seamstress had in mind many graphic ways to describe what would happen if her request isn't met. But she lost track of her thoughts at something the Chimeric Professor couldn't quite see.

"What-?"

The next instant is difficult to follow, specially from the wrong side of a broken gelatinous orb. Environmental light suddenly dims. The looming face once staring needles into the spiderling turns to look around frantically, right before the whole person vanishes swallowed by shadowy tendrils, so fast she was left no time to scream.

The problem is, lacking a person to hold it, the sown eye falls...

And falls, precipitously towards the little patch remaining of ground...

Until not even that ground remains, turning it into a fall into the all-consuming, endless blackness of a shadow swallowing all light. Blackest than black.

Gant.

The Professor's dream becomes fully lucid in that moment. When they regain their shape (ever-changing as it is under Parabola's logic), they find a bandaged, masked figure standing in front of them, exactly at their same height.

"Tene..." The Professor started, taking a step towards nem. But are there such a thing as steps, when there's no floor on which to walk?

The Tenebrous Wanderer takes a step back (then again, not a step, more like hovering back), not wanting to close the distances, not yet.

The Professor stops, hesitating, but ultimately nodding in acquiescence.

The Wanderer nods slowly. At last, a show of respect for personal boundaries and nir right to self-determinate! That's a good sign. But ne can't stay here for long.

The Professor opens their eyes just in time to see the bandaged hand of the Wanderer tended towards them. Neatly folded garnet shades resting on the palm.

Be-careful-next-time

That was all the warning to be given. Perhaps, if one read it that way, it could even be a reproach regarding the last time they saw each other... But as soon as the Professor smiled hopeful and accepted the offered shades...

They woke up, sighing in pleased relief...

Until they saw the absolute army of sorrow-spiders now invading their bedroom.

The Tenebrous Wanderer has been a rare sight in the Orphanage since the very beginning. Too happy to be there compared with the other long-term residents, and leaving a trail of bright mood in sharp contrast with the gloomy shadows refusing to surrender to the light after ne passed. But today it was even worse. The very walls of the Nightmarish building caught stray vibrations of delight and excitement while the little absence hovered nir way around the aseptic corridors (yes, ne caught the custom of fusing nir lower legs with a mantle of shadows so ne just has to glide slightly above floor level, does wonders for presentation and efficient displacement), going around to perform nir tasks for the day.

There was a census to be taken on both the permanent inmates and those who appeared just for the sleep cycle. There was checking the dream-orderlies' patrols and patterns of behavior. There was an amount of time ne won't admit spent trying to map a perceived change in the building's distribution when it was actually that ne lost track of where ne was and thought it was the building's fault. There was cleaning some of the most popular rooms to host nightmares, after the dreamer got creative with self-inflicted psychological horror. There was even the chance to intercept a wayward teenager dreamer who got pressured by others to try and brave the "Nightmare Orphanage Gauntlet" by eating some special honey (ne already informed Edward, this will surely need some investigation), who ne protected from seeing something undue by silently following him, a shadow mantle blurring perception and filling every corner of whispers, every wall with scratches and every cell with rattling until he was unknowingly guided to the exit.

Now Tene was tending to the garden, radiating so much joy the little plants around were leaning towards nem. And why is that? Well, let's say Edward gave nem permission to invite the Lied Piper to the Orphanage once nir tasks for the day were finished. And that will happen very soon after a specially diligent day of eagerness-powered work. Just a few moments more! Ne is already daydreaming (as if ne ever stopped) about the moment. Ne can even almost see the Piper crossing the fence.

The communion in the Principles of Coral was a total success!

Likely.

The Chimeric Professor will need a moment to assimilate the transferred knowledge, examine the details of the conversation, and of course coming to understand the Spliced Echelon's nature and how it will help.

So far the little dear has proved to be catlike to a fault. Including the way in which its eyes stared down your soul. It's just that the Professor doesn't have any at the moment,aand usually a cat's eyes don't sink you into a deep mnetic introspection. The Professor really should be back at their lab writing it all down, making tests and trials and formulae and everything they were preparing for.

Not yet, though.

The Professor didn't try to fool anyone, least of all themself. They were deeply, deadly afraid of the ~~Sadistic~~ Sybilline Seamstress' revenge, for there will be one, and they knew. So they were trying to postpone the return home as much as possible.

Thus why they find themself in Venderbight right now. Close enough to home for plausible deniability, yet far enough the Motherlings' influence won't reach. Not within Copper territory. Not surrounded by stairs, feathered headwear, mottled mantles and scaled gloves. There was also a party when the Thetis' Spyglass docked in. The Tomb-Colonists called it a "Welcome Party" of course, even if it was scheduled and prepared long before the crew ever thought on getting there, but the almost-dead won't disregard a chance of getting livelier flesh around the celebrations.

And oh, such magnificent party it was! Wine was dusty and food was dry, but no one like the elder, rejected and disabled to know how to enjoy life, give and and just seize the day like it will be the last one. For many of the party-goers it may very well be the case. It wouldn't be until the morning the crew will discover that not only one of their own died badly enough to be submitted to the Skin-Check and pass it, but also he wasn't in any way put out by this outcome.

But the greatest attraction of this Danse Macabre was a sudden fortuite meeting. A familiar face in the crowd: Unbandaged, of a lively skin tone, four-eyed and twice-spectacled. The Analgesic Rhetorician, here in the Colonies!

Of course he was sitting cross-legged in the middle of a circle of meditating Tomb-Colonists, absolutely abstracted from the music, dance, feast and other assorted diversions surrounding them. The Rhetorician himself was leading them through a low, soothing, monotone speech. The Professor only could hear the last part before reaching his side.

"- for good arguments can do more than change minds, but bodies as well. An organism is but a chorus of conversations being held in many languages at once. Pain, for example, is one of those languages. And as all languages it can be learned, mastered, and unlearned with enough patience and practice."

Upon the sight of his old friend, and finished the gathering of like-minded individuals, the Rhetorician got on his feet and reached for the Professor, who asked what was he doing in Venderbight. Turns out the Rhetorician's penchant for London's High Society exposed him to too much Scandal and, ultimately, had a firm crowd after him not-so-kindly informing the way to attone for it was boarding the first steamer headed to the Tomb-Colonies and let the rumors lay to rest on their own. Of course he had to form a debate salon wherever he went, and was learning lots.

The Chimeric Professor asked the Analgesic Rhetorician for a dance, and he accepted. Despite his slow movements and numbing touch (consequences of having dreadmoss toxin running through his veins since birth) he enjoyed human dances, and had gotten better at them as time went on. The Professor seized the chance to rejoyce in the close company of a good and interesting friend, letting his touch and words ease their pains both physical and psychological, breathing in his scent, always a promise of falling asleep on him and never to wake up... Oh, the Professor already had an idea of how they wanted to spend the night, but there was a chance for a question, before.

"When we first met you said you could teach me the ways of your clade. To change through rhetoric, the spoken voice and the right argument."

"Yes, I did. I also did say you weren't ready to understand the lessons as they needed you to understand them."

"Has it changed, now? Could you evaluate me again?"

The Rhetorician awaited until the music ended, and with it their dance, to answer.

"I will. Come, I will show you my accommodations, and you can show me how much you learned about communicating through the languages of the body..."

And, of course, that was exactly what they did. A conversation of bodies, ranging from entertaining dialogues to flaming arguments, developing into a debate in which each speaker aimed for the other part to come out on top.

In the end, while the Professor was laying exhausted, dying from overexposure to their companion's innate toxin, breathing hard and spaced, each hearbeat farther away from the previous, they could hear the veredict they were waiting for.

"You are ready."

Then came their last breath. The final heartbeat. The numbness which had long before overtaken their body turning into simple nothingness as the organic shock spreaded from their chest outwards. But the last thing the Professor saw before their eyes failed was Echelon's piercing Apocyan gaze. And, in the depths of the alien light, in that last moment of lucidity which could very well have lasted an eternity, they understood.

They'll sadly have to wait until tomorrow to take notes, though.

The Fruits of the Zee Festival was over.

It had been a very good experience, the Chimeric Professor. The best so far, in the company of so many friends, even despite a frankly... Unsettling encounter. Seeing her stall so innocently placed in the Fruits Market, watching their every movement with nothing beyond an enigmatic smile beneath a seven-eyed stare, was definitely unnerving. But the good moments greatly outnumbered the discomfort. And the salvaged treasures from the depths allowed for a couple of profitable purchases later on. Two particular treasures and one particular purchase will be of great help now.

These musings were being had at Mutton Island's currently overflowing dock. Too many people brought their personal ships to this event, making zee traffic impossible for some hours. Well, a few more moments of walking barefoot through the beach, further developing the plan to be enacted...

Until finally the dock gets free enough to allow passage of a Nyx-class zubmersible. There has been lots like this one, but only one of them is Thetis' Spyglass, the beloved and well-equipped research zubmarine a good friend of the Professor is willing to lease in return of a compelling story and have his name on the related publications. This is the ship the Chimeric Professor boards right before it zets zail towards Port Cecil, the most bustling settlement in the Principles of Coral.

The preparations for the meeting with the Professor's source were tedious, but that was to be expected. The tides under the Impostor Moon are intense yet luckily predictable. For hours the only thing to be done is to drink (which the Professor doesn't), play chess (a good practice is always welcome, especially since they've started learning how to properly play, also getting to show off the finally completed set) and revise the plans, calculations and reference material. This has to go right in the first try, or the opportunity might slip forever...

Once the tide recedes enough, the work begins at tidal level. Iron & Misery Co. trying to ruthlessly harvest the seemingly unprotected scintillack, the Light-In-Exile trying to preserve the reef with feline wits.

Both of them are mistaken fools, of course. For the reef wants none of them. For this reason, the Professor and their hired crew work to subtly yet significantly sabotage both sides in their efforts. And finally their efforts bear fruit once the Impostor Moon reaches its Perigee, revealing a very good hidden cave which only exists when the light is right, the tide is low, and the environment is silent.

The cave on its own is a wonder to behold. Like stepping inside of a crystalline geode, the moonish light reflecting off its many facets in increasingly alien tones of silver, fading into farther colors, colors that didn't exist on Earth before... Before what?

Do you recall how they came to that place?

At that point the Professor needed to hold onto their mind. It is too easy to lose track of one's own thoughts in this place, a prismatic lens inside a once-bright mind, now fading as far from greatness as it can. This has to be done well.

With the patience one needs to invest in a delicate process, yet the haste induced by their life depending on how long until the cave is completely drowned again, the Professor prepares the scene: A complete set of scintillack pieces the color of hemoglobine on the offensive, and another one of a melatonin hue to defend. In the place where each player should be, a trembling amber-tipped diapason is placed. And in between the warring armies, the fecund nodule infused by Her Fivefold Symmetry. The Professor sits as comfortably as one can sit in coral-encrusted rock, breathes deeply, and activates the resonators.

The vibrations are antagonistic at first, soundwaves interfering between them numbing the sound. It's the Professor's duty to armonize them. Focusing on both sounds at once, shaping the amber from the distance, carving a safe place within their mind, a hole where one could hide. It has to be small enough not to let themself fall inside in accident. It has to be big enough to fit a god.

Kin's Paw to Cream Four

The ensuing conversation could hardly be translated into words. Thus it won't be.

Suffice to say one of the parts craves Dissolution, an absolute descent from the Chain until nothing remains of the being it once was. The other part knew, and offered a way to make it faster, and have the other part's loathed power and knowledge be of use elsewhere, far from it.

The trance was finally broken when the Unterzee's cold water reached the sitting Professor's stomach. It wasn't a pleasant way of waking up. They jumped, splashing water all around before recovering a feeling of identity and purpose. Looking down, there was the improvised coral chessboard. Red side won by Epaulette.

And the prize in the middle of the board? No longer fecund amber, bright with diffuse sunlight and scents of fertile soil mingling with the zaltpeter. Now a lamp-cat idly swims in its place, eyes apocyan instead of peligin. A nodule of trembling amber, thundering with memories of a pale sky far away, held in its mouth like a proudly caught prey. How many echelons the Principles transferred to this little dear? The rising tides leave no time to wonder.

"Come with me, Echelon." The Professor beckons with a warm tone yet understandably hurrying the little beast, who allowed itself to be picked up. The chesspieces were already dissolving, no point on retrieving them. They performed their function perfectly fine. "We have lots to learn together..."

The Tenebrous Wanderer had a wish for nir last days alive in the physical realm: Get to witness the Hinterlands thanks to the convenient railway stablished to do exactly so! Of course, the little absence had access to the Chimeric Professor's funds, and ne knew they won't deny the use that will be done of them, so with economic freedom ne guided nir best friend, the Lied Piper, to the Moloch Street Underground (which was actually an aboveground, excused by London's street-level being already underground) to buy the tickets.

In fact, it was the Piper who bought the tickets, guided by Tene's fond hand holding. Enough of them to reach to the very gates of Hell and back to London, right to stop and retake the train whenever necessary, with access to dormitory and dining cars in case the Piper needed to sleep or eat, for ne wanted them the most comfortable as possible.

Boarding the train, which arrived with only an agreeable delay, was perfectly easy. All kinds of people use the Great Hellbound Railway! Tomb-colonists, Clay Men, Rubbery Men, as well as the more usual London inhabitants. Nor Piper nor Wanderer were looked at twice, besides to check the tickets and being welcomed aboard the train. Tene didn't buy first class, ne's not a monster, but second class were comfortable enough for this little adventure. Vibrating excitedly in a way that could match the train's engines themselves, there they go...

For the Chimeric Professor, the last hours have been melting one into the other in the most confusing amalgam. The last thing they remember clearly is a delightful meeting with friends (former classmates), the happiness of that moment seeming too far away despite having happened yesterday evening, while now the first shy gaslights and candles of the False-Dawn were starting to draw attention towards the window.

The Professor didn't even care. They've spent all night treading around London looking for a shadow particularly capable of hiding anywhere, and from any sight. The very same they were intent on having killed for their sake. The very same they created unexpectedly but from the first moment knew they wanted to give a good life. The very same that has been receiving the most loving farewells in yesterday's party.

They should be happy, really. The Tenebrous Wanderer took the right choice. Escape death, refuse to be sacrificed, take nir life in nir own hands and give it the value it deserves. Not allow them to make this mistake they weren't strong enough to prevent on their own.

And yet, they can't. Their eyes, mind and heart keep aiming Roofwards. The palps hidden within their mouth keep flexing and looking to sate a dark hunger their new friends only make worse. Their bones creak, even after only nine days since the last shaping. They feel empty and so far away from what they need. And unable to leave.

They need Tene back, or they may end up losing their head. Maybe it is gone already. How else could they think on letting such a pure soul worth everything good in the world be killed for their sake?

Drawn to this madness of their own making. Like a moth to a flame.

And such a glorious flame it is...

Among their anxiety-induced cavilations, the Professor has already forgotten why are they here right now. It is the appointed hour for the Soft-Eyed Mycologist to arrive and perform the dreadful... Experiment? Ritual? Atrocity, the most fitting.

And were he to call at the door, he'll find how an exhausted, shaking, beyond conflicted shapeling with every eye ringed in salt will open it.

The Chimeric Professor was pacing restlessly around their living room, paying attention to the door. They have sent a message to the Tenebrous Wanderer, asking to meet again and discuss some important matters, given the choices made and how they affected both of them. The Professor hoped for nem to come, yet expected nem not to, as it would have been a very normal reaction.

The Wanderer thought the same. For a moment, ne feared it could be a trap, to cut nir remaining time even shorter. Or perhaps an attempt at giving explanations and excuses ne didn't need, maybe a selfish attempt at asking forgiveness from the sacrificial victim before the blade falls. But ne knew the Professor. Ne knew they wouldn't be that petty or dishonest. Perhaps it was something important. Ne couldn't risk to depart forever without having at least tried.

So ne, already used to not ringing nir own house's bell, just slipped beneath the door, startling the Professor in a way which almost inverted who of them wasn't expected to survive. Once recovered, they stepped closer, hands offered in a way that regretted not being able to hug nem, which ne understood very well, returning the gesture. There was a sigh, perfectly coordinated between them both or, more like, produced by the Professor and armonized by the Wanderer.

There was a bit of silence. The Wanderer silently asking what was ne called for. The Professor silently looking for a way to answer without sounding absolutely crazy, sinfully selfish, and any combination of both at the same time. Finally, they settled on not making the one sentenced to death wait any longer.

"I am designing a way to make your life go on, in a way, after your death."

There was an interrogation hanging in the air, placed there by the Wanderer, which the Professor picked up.

"Edward's proposal of translating you into Parabola had me thinking. Most people have Parabolan reflections, who usually show a different version of oneself, but sometimes they are perfect replicas. If we could make you one, exactly as you are, with your memories and personality, just made out of dreams instead of shadows, Viric dreaming to be Gant. That way you, a version of you, could live on, keep experiencing the world and keep close to nir friends, just from the other side of the mirror... While your original self will be dissolved into me once again, the other could go on with your life... If you so wish, that is."

There is a moment of silence, before the Professor decides to add.

"And I would prefer you to not disappear entirely. I... I love you, Tene. I truly do. I want you to live a full life, and I know you could without me preventing it. Had I not made you on a whim you could have been more stable, and if I didn't need you to heal I would-"

The Professor was stopped by Tene's raised hand, derailing the cycle of regrets. Then the bandaged absence took hold of pen and paper, and started writing.

"You did the same. Let yourself be sacrificed, live on through a double."

"... Yes, that's the case. How do you...? I didn't tell you-"

"Your moth told me, in Burgundy."

The Professor stood there, assimilating that information. The Wanderer got back to the point.

"Have you ever felt less yourself, because of this? False? Wrong? A liar? Or do you feel part of an unbroken continuity?"

"I never doubted of my authenticity or self. My body may be younger than my memories, may not have been born of my mother, or be the one that grew with myself, but I am me, always have been. My family is still mine, as are my friends, experiences and personality. I... I don't think a body defines who I am."

Both of them needed to sit down for a moment to think deeply on the fact. Or, more accurately, the Professor needed to sit down and the Wanderer followed suit, as it is polite.

"Will I get to meet nem? Get to know who I will be from them on?"

"I... I believe so, yes. I'll need you to create nem, and once the deed succeeds, ne'll be at the other side of the mirror while you remain here. So you could interact, just like anyone else with their reflection, or perhaps in a more special way, given how unique you are and, thus, how unique ne'll be."

"Will my friends know? Do they need to?"

"They..." The Professor sighed, knowing very well what this question entailed. "They don't need to know, no. I can tell them you were just translated into Parabola, which won't be a lie, and that you keep living from there. If you so wish."

The Tenebrous Wanderer thought about it for a short while, then slowly nodded, no need to write.

"Very well. I can promise you that. Will you accept? Will you allow me to try and save at least part of you? Can I start researching and experimenting? I won't take you from your last days, not a second more than necessary. I'll just require your presence to perform the translation, after Tuesday's meeting. Do you agree?"

The Tenebrous Wanderer stood motionless for a long while. Then, finally, nodded slowly.

"Yyyssss"

The Professor wasn't expecting this kind of answer. They will hold onto the memory of it to their dying breath. They will need it if they wish to survive their guilt long enough to enjoy the gift their creation, their child, is so generously bestowing them with such grace.

The Professor needed to hug Tene so badly.

"Thank you..." They managed to say before sobbing, eyelids forming salt crystals again.

The Tenebrous Wanderer didn't answer at that. Instead, ne just wrote something down then stood to grab an envelop, put the folded message there, then seal it, leaving on the table. In the envelope, another message is written.

"Open it, when this me is no longer."

Finally ne waved goodbye, and slipped under the door again, back to Fallen London, back to nir last days of life, back to nir friends, who made this life something worth being sad about its end.

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The Chimeric Professor

Fallen London Profile

December 2025

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The Chimeric Professor's Research Notes

Testimonies of a Fallen World

Recent Entries

Sticky: Inbox

All I Wanted For Christmas Was You

A Heartfelt Request

Only an Absence to Mourn You

Sleeping in the Cold Above

A Dream of Pupation

The Spectre of Hallowmas Past

Motherling: The Parenting

On the Calcification of Memory, and the Dissolution Thereof

The Askálaphos to my Psykhé

A Birth, Eightfold

Love Me When It Hurts The Most

Having Recurring Dreams: In the Midst of Despair

The Annunciation of a Pale Birth

A Dream of Debt Unpaid

Beaking around the Orphanage

A New Cat, an Old Friend and a Full Tomb

Advice Given, Out Of Principle

Last Wills Throughout the Hinterlands

A Dream Come True, Lack of an Absence

A Desperate Plea for Hope