*cough cough* new show in the Cutie Pie universe *cough cough*
Is this Naughty Babe of “are they going to stick with boy-severely-traumatized-by-the-tiny-dog-kissies-in-cutie-pie-instead-of-the-fucking-cougar-in-the-novel” fame or a new new series? 👀
(omg anon i just made a nunew pun by chance how delightful!)
The fire is crackling, sending skeins of sparks skyward, and overhead the stars
I am camped out in the Tulgey Wood, near Akron. I am what you would call an amateur mycologist, but I'm hoping to turn professional soon. The requirements are that I submit a new discovery to the Society. So I have booked a week off of work and set out for the most distant woodlands the rail network could reach.
I haven't seen anything too promising soon, though. The usual bracket funghi protruding from fallen logs and branches. Clusters of false morel and chanterelle. Even a few amanita muscaria right out of a child's storybook. But nothing exceptional. Still, I don't intend to give up yet. And if nothing else, it's an excuse to be out-of-doors, engaging in one of my passions outside of work, and as Dr Weintraub always says, that's one of the five keys to happiness.
I idle away the time before bed in sketching. I deliberately set up near a particularly fascinating cluster of boletus, and the firelight is casting a fascinating chiaroscuro of shifting shadows upon them. I am keen to capture something of note, both as a memento to myself and as something to show the Society.
A sudden crackling sound makes me jump, and at first I think it was something in the fire popping, but then I look up and lock eyes with…
…a tiny little man, no more than two feet in height. His skin is as white as a horse mushroom, his hair as fine as the fronds on coprinus comatus [also known as the shaggy inkcap or lawyer's wig] He has a regal bearing, and wears a red-and white outfit that looks like a cross between a druid's robe and a 19th-century clockwork prince's outfit.
For a moment, I am too startled to speak. The little man gives a cough like a mouse crashing into leaf-litter.
'Ah…I…hello?"
"Hullo." I can hear the "u" pronounced clearly. "I am the Prince of The Mushrooms." His voice is as small and delicate as he is.
I can't think of what to say, so I simply nod, and he nods as well, pleased.
"You must be careful with your fire," he says matter-of-factly. "Though it is good that you have dug a trench, and sited it properly."
"Th-thank you, I shall," I reply. "Is that why you have come?"
The Prince does not reply. Instead, he steps delicately toward me, his feet making a gentle soft crunching.
"Most of those who visit come and take the mushrooms. They do not ask, they simply take. But you do not. Why?"
I explain what I'm doing in the woods, carefully skirting around the fact that I had in fact planned to snag a handful once I was done cataloguing. The Prince listens so attentively I begin to feel self-conscious.
"So, you are here to admire us. Okay." The Prince nods, and shyly trudges one of his tiny feet into the dirt. "This is most agreeable. You may, in truth, be the person we mushrooms need. You see, we have a message…"
"Forgive me-" I realise I have no idea how to address him. "-Prince…but I didn't realise the mushrooms had a representative. Or that they were even…well…sentient? Do you know that word?"
He nods. "Of course. But you must know about the mycelium? You call yourself a scholar of mushrooms, and yet you do not know of it?"
"I do," I say. "I do know of it. But I didn't realise…"
"All mushrooms share their wisdom. And the more and more they grow, the more and more wisdom grows too. Eventually, if enough accumulates…I am born."
"I see," I say, thinking quickly. "Then…do you mind awfully if I were to sketch you, briefly?"
The Prince considers this, a bone-white tendril of a hand going to his gilled chin. "First, there is the matter of our message. You may note it down." He looks meaningfully at the pen in my hand.
"Of course," I say, making ready to write. "What is your message?"
The Prince clears his throat again. "We mushrooms do not mind that you take, are fed by us; it is the way of the mushrooms. We are born from death, after all; we feed on the dead; to be plucked and eaten is but a transferance of energy. We will return anew regardless."
My pen scratches ceaselessly as he speaks.
"However," he continues, "we must be treated with respect. We are delicate beings, and the balance must be preserved. Too many of your kind have recently galumphed through our forests, taking baskets of us away. There must be balance in all things, and we mushrooms wish to address that balance."
"Indeed, indeed," I agree. "Balance is lacking in the world today. But I fear none will believe me without proof."
"I will hold counsel gladly with whomever you bring, provided you assure my safety," the Prince says. "And, provided it does not take overlong, you may sketch me, as you have so kindly captured my fellow boletus. I am a little hungry: have you any meal?"
"Meal?" I echo, and he nods. "Yes, for my kin wet bark meal is the finest delicacy I could be offered."
"I'm sorry, I don't believe I do," I say, and then I remember the sandwiches I had left in my pack, and forgotten. "I do have some old sandwiches…"
The Prince raises an eyebrow frond. "Show, if you please."
I rummage in my pack and produce them, holding them out as if for a bird. He sniffs delicately, and says, "Acceptable." A tendril takes the package and he takes a delicate bite as I begin the task of capturing his Majesty's likeness.
It takes time. The image of the strange little creature takes form on the page as the fire burns lower and lower. I worry about the light, but it proves needless, as when the firelight begins to dim the Prince begins gently to glow, an ice-white silhouette in the darkness, and my drawing can continue.
By the time I am done, owls are hooting in the trees and the forest floor is alive with crepsecular creatures.
I yawn, and the Prince echoes me.
"You must rest," he says. "I shall take my leave. Should you need to find me again, simply remember: you will find me at the forest's core, the fallen warrior that shelters the heart of the mycelium."
I can't even ask what he means. The last memory I have before sleep takes me is the gentle hiss as the fire is cautiously doused, and I feel myself being ushered gently into the tent.
In the light of morning, of course, it is hard to believe it happened- were it not for the sketch I took, and the tiny trail of footprints glistening in the morning dew, I would have believed it a dream.
I drew a picture of my AU Francel, the Rose Bandit. Due to the Haurchefant of his AU being a noble - and never getting to save him - he was left for dead when bandits came for him and found out he was simply a fourth born.
And he became a bandit. And eventually, a heretic - learning he was worthless to them, and turning himself to poisoning people in secret... then selling them the potions with a smile. Some people rumour he looks like a noble sometime, but he’s sick of the game.
so emmanelle, my au Emmanellain, got a calca. probably just a prank from the haurches of the family. or one of neros prototypes. in other news i wanna doodle some cute emm/emmy art. they would get along so well. i mean until emmy becomes a terrified pushover due to being the greystone and not even acomplished like if bros were greystone so very low opinion of self
