This post is an homage to the classes of Lovely Dark, like the Fighter and the Paladin, made out of admiration, enjoyment and prosaic jealousy. Please go read those, and if you already have, do it again.
The first symptom of the illness is exhaustion.
So they say, but you know better. The chirurgeons in their laboratories do not walk among the people like you do. They do not sit at the table of the world like you. They see it through still-lives: corpses. That is their table. Medicine is the worship of paintings. The elegiac science, to which the living body is blank and unwhole, lacking the completing touch that only death may grant it.
Doctors are your enemies.
Illness has no heart that schemes in the body, first letting loose its smallest and only then its most vicious knaves. Illness is singular and emergent. It grows like a moon-pale flower, first a bud, then a stem, then bileous petals. Like with the parts of this flower, the appearance of different symptoms is only an illusion, distracting from the truth that they are all the same plant, and they occur not as a collection, but as transformations of the original smallest form.
Exhaustion is not a symptom. It is the bud. The seed of destruction, dispersed around the world on the wind.
You will see that it never sprouts. Because you are a healer, not an embalmer. You are an agent of the bon-vivance. The ceaseless rancour beats in you. You never sleep. You cannot sleep.
|Art by Nguyen Bao Tin|
Starting Equipment: A bottle of strong liquor. A book of wild and invigorating tales, poems, songs, which you wrote. A pair of scissors. An unforgettable face.
Skills: 1) Opera Singer 2) Escape Artist 3) Gambler 4) Rabble-Rouser 5) Chef 6) Ballerina
A: Flowerpicker, Cabaret and Cabinet
B: Main Brûlant
D: Prince of Cowards
|Art by Coohdraws|
|Art by Thomas Eakins, 1889|
People do not forget you easily, especially your enemies. The white-and-black servants of the elegiac science loom in the shadows with hooks and scalpels drawn when you wander through the streets alone at night. At all times they seek to grab you in their cold, wet hands and snuff you out. They want your bandaged body to sit behind glass in their walnut-wood and marble halls, your organs displayed in a tutor's deathly sculpture. They want your dust in vials, and their canvas daubed in your mummy brown. They want to cut the masterpiece from your flesh.
- Doctor in white clothing, with a scalpel and bone saw.
- Living mummy.
- Invisible man who leaves black foot- and handprints.
- Large vulture.
- Three zombies.
- Large black greyhound
- Person you affronted during your last clamouring
- Venomous cobra snake.
|Art by Beneš Knüpfer, 1890|