Lovingly inspired by this breathtaking piece, itself inspired by this. Uses bits from many other places.
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| Opened by Customs, 1937–8, Kurt Schwitters. Mail art was a thing. Learning is cool. |
I've loved a score, my heart is full
But the touch of flesh has no more pull
Filling aching holes; a void
When I'm done they're only toyed
with; letters I do so much ignore
I've decided that I hate your lore
Or some such, closure's yours
I care not for your heart's chores
Just a thing, just a thing
places, things and times and rings
Love, the peel of churches bells
Tell me more how life is Hell
Dark nights, those hot flashing deeds
Pillow talk it out and bleed
Die for me the little death
And I'll be here now, though even less
[This assumes a system where hirelings can be regularly acquired, have Loyalty scores and are limited in how many you can hire. It also assume you track costs of living which you should.]
The Flophouse Sweat
The sun and hateful pretender tries to remove you from the room, its sticky heat insistent, sweat pouring down your forehead in errant rivulets. A letter sits unopened, suspiciously straight on the desk amongst the clutter of manuscripts and poems, bills and fan mail, one far outnumbering the others. You, work-obsessed, work obsessed, fingers flying until your ward and lover Lady Moonbeam comes out in full. You're close.
Cigarette's acrid embrace on muttering mouth longs for the lipstick seal guarding the hard longing within. The typewriter burns hot, cigarette forgotten, the sin burns your lips and you strike up another, raw need rising in your obsessive idle mind. You'll smother it tonight with whoever is willing. You're burning stark and bright and death is on your heels, you know because the stars in their eyes told you long ago. This chapter can wait; it might be your last. You head out.
Starting Equipment. Two instruments, one old and abandoned, one idly mastered. A satchel with a half-dozen love-letters from as many suitors, and four from someone you can no longer have. A well-maintained portable typewriter. A book of one dozen matches.
You are someone who uses people like things. You are also a matchstick, burning up and out fiery and bright. Death is hot on you heels you can feel it.
Templates
Boon. Switch your highest score with CHA and add +1 per template. It can exceed the maximum.
Bane. You only regain MD when you burn a love letter (either kind). This is either a casual thing or gives your heart palpitations.
A). Favored for Heartbreak on High, Bad Habit, +1 MD
B). How Insidious is Notoriety
C). Dance as they Desire
D). Kiss the Mouth of Death
Favored for Heartbreak on High. God they need you, each one a wet smothering embrace on your fiery candelabra soul. And part of you needs them, burning them up, just pillow talks while Lady Moonbeam watches on. They become wisps of smoke at dawn.
Anywhere you go, you may encounter suitors who will wish to marry or fuck you, promising wealth, power or aid possibly including lodging and food. You hate them and they write sappy love letters each week for you. Roll [MD] under CHA and as long as you do not outright reject them, they become hirelings at no cost with a +1 Loyalty score for everything you hate about them that you can name.
To them you are the most beautiful person thy have ever seen. [They gain HD equal to MD spent]
You may also pursue lovers those that the wretched cigarette-stained parts of you need. They can be anyone. They may reject you but this isn't likely. After a walk in the moonlight, a night of amorous activity or a starry passionate fuck, you may ask a favor of them. Roll under CHA but above their HD and if you succeed they will perform a task for you even a dangerous one if its befitting of their character. They will want love in return but you can only have one at a time. When you leave them or acquire a new lover, it will break their heart. They may even write a letter.
Magic cannot make people love you. If you can name it, it is not love.
Monsters, kings and priests' HD are doubled for these purposes, and it does not work on someone whose heart you've broken. But you already know that.
The referee should add suitors to the random encounter table. I recommend making them somewhat common but not the most common. Perhaps 9 or 10 or 4 or 5 on 2d6. Here's a quick way to make NPCs.
Bad Habit. Wealth is what you see. For each ostentatious article of clothing, jewelry, perfumes, lotions or unguents you wear worth over 100 gp, gain +1 HD. If you don't smoke at least once per watch, gain fatigue which weighs one slot.
[This could frankly could go for anyone or replace a whole leveling system. Make it 1000 gp or 100 sp, I don't care the economy isn't real. Or make it +1 HP instead of HD. I'm not your dad.]
Δ Acquire 10 suitors or watch 5 die. Burn one of those four letters and gain +1 MD. The dreadful feeling costs 1 slot of inventory. You feel something is crawling across time to get you and you cannot name it.
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| Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, In bed the kiss, 1892–1893. |
How Insidious is Notoriety. No longer is it easy to hide, harder to smother at night as the fever pitch of your insides grows. At the cost of an awful fever you are now immune to most diseases and can light matches and kindling with a touch.
While the Sun, that hated pretender, hangs in the sky you are highly socially visible and invulnerable. Suitors find you easily and you are innocent. You appear as a dandy, bright and virile.
While Lady moonbeam watches over you, you are socially invisible but vulnerable. No one including suitors will not recognize you without a touch, save lovers. You appear as an apparition, hellish and combusting or perhaps just a bit put out.
While carousing, whatever that means to you, you may choose either.
Δ Acquire 3 lovers and break two of their hearts at the same time. Burn the second of those four love letters and gain +1 MD. The dreadful feeling costs 2 slots now. You refuse to name it.
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| Orpheus And Eurydice, by Frederic Leighton (c. 1830-1896) |
Dance as they Desire. You begin to grow delirious, sweat pours off you when you think of your lovers and you grow hot to the touch. You are resistant to fire and you can grasp someone and deal 1d12 damage per hand per round, until they shake you off, push you away or kiss you passionately.
Your sphere of influence grows, the crunching sound of the broken hearts at your feet growing louder all the time. You may pay non-suitor followers and retainers on credit, if you roll x:6 where x is the number of templates you possess in this class. Roll per unique follower or batch of same-profession hirelings.
Suitors never lie to you even by omission, and lovers can only tell the truth. The number of followers you can usually have is doubled.
Δ Kill someone you love with your bare hands. Read the third letter right after and gain +1MD. You name the feeling. It weighs 4 slots now.
Magnum Opus. You finish it that night, as it will soon finish you. The book. The play. The story. Whatever. From now on a busy night's work, something honestly written or soulfully played or falling in love lets you spend MD to:
Make people cry, healing [sum] HP or severe wounds, poisons or spell durations (good or bad) [dice] stages, whatever that means to you.
Make people laugh, putting a little bit of your love in them. Give them [dice]. They can use the [dice] whenever they want the same way you can.
Change people's minds. If [sum] exceeds their CHA barely, by two or by three you change how they think a step for a day, a year or forever, whatever that means to you.
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| Love and Death, Da Loria Norman, 1931 |
Kiss the Mouth of Death. Once per lifetime, you can literally escape death. When you would die, you don't. It was just a pseudonym and a silly game and you didn't mean it. The next one's for real. Besides, you're burnt out. Everyone forgets who you are except you, who's just now figured it out.
Δ Optionally with a few spells you could be a Fool. With that murder, you could be even more Violent. All you have to do is burn the final letter.
