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December 26, 2011 / Wythe

Ideas for new classes

I’m just gonna start riffing. I want to see where I get based on the names alone. They were generated randomly and/or made-up, and I can’t find the generator I used now. In any event, these are thought-starters, prose poems, not necessarily for 100 M.Y. Perhaps one will be useful to you, Dear Reader.

  • Multimonk / Echozealot (multiple monk, duh) – You are a monk able to split into multiple bodies to whoop ass (duh). Each body shares hp. If one body dies, you lose CON permanently. You worship simultaneity and seek often to make love to two lovers, in different places, at the same time. You wonder about “losing” part of you and then regaining it in a different fashion. Can you merge with other species at higher level? Can you change parts of you? (Send Hyde off to do the dirty work while Jekyll researches chemistry like a bawse?) Perhaps. You wear four cufflinks (four) and speak with a mild echo (echo).
  • Metrovert / Streeter (Jim Jones super liar homeless messiah) – You are a cultish religious figure who worships the city. You use a mace shaped like a small skyscraper, whose windows are razory diamonds. You have no home, as the whole city is your home. You and your followers (a mob-cult really—and growing by the day) sing at odd hours and clash with the local authorities, until they join you too… You seek total control, a total outdoors-izing of the city. The metropole is distributed back into the street. The agrarians come to build cities over their farms so that you will bless them… Or so you fantasize. Powers are all on some urban-Jesus tip, all about deception, convincing, and Commanding Voice. You give away money and don’t do much fighting yourself. On the other hand, you don’t just convert, you also pervert. You are powered by illicit, adulterating sex. But maybe you mean well (you’re just Sneaky/Greedy): When one city finally ejects you (the immune system, mob-chaos mentis, kicks in) you just cruise over to City #2…
  • Neurohunter / Pranger (Imperial sci-fi “bad guy” org minon #1) – You seek to hunt and kill—not living things, but thoughts. Disguised as an ordinary mind-doctor or curate or simple town gossip (barber, barkeep) or courtesan, vizier, adviser, or hooker, you worm inside the mind of your target and erase the verboten thought. Perhaps the thought is one that has never conscious occurred to them; it is a premonition, a base instinct, a notion upon which they will certainly react, one day… Your class powers involve stealth, disguise/chameleon/camouflage, and of course mindwiping. Perhaps you don’t know any other hell science. Perhaps you hate the thought of other uses of the mind. Your Order sees destruction as play, as creativity. You are known by the mark of our Order: A black worm tattooed somewhere on your skull; a hex nut screwed into your lower back (where the Ordinates injected you with the Hunting Code); a single long pinkynail; a preference for two drops of fiery smelling black pepper distillation in your kelp lager…
  • Exowarden (Imperial sci-fi “bad guy” org minon #2) – In the outer colonies, on Luna, deep in the earth, in the Bug Tunnels, on the frozen floating Alcazaba That Is Not Known—you and your fellows are there, keeping the OUTER (xeno, exo) from coming IN. That is what matters. You are equipped with powers of OTHERING: You change the known to unknown when you suspect it of treason; you jail the possible threat… Powers include tracking, surviving in inhospitable climes (a la a ranger, but one driven by hatred instead of at-one-ness), and the ability to stop the Other, to freeze him in his tracks. You roll with a shotgun and a moustache? Probably. An evil, Kafkan class? Yeaaah. Or again, perhaps more an order, a group than a class. Or your class mechanic involves randomness: The Other is Fate/World; you roll the dice to determine if you can find and trap it. Or you sacrifice yourself in hate-lust after the target. You trap them in syzygy with yourself. Whoa. Gross. Don’t be this class.
  • Exoscourge (Imperial sci-fi “bad guy” org minon #3) – Exowarden alt, more focused on psychic tracking/capturing/annihilating of the Other. You want to dwell in space. You want to merge with a starship and go hunt down the aliens. You want to defend, scour. Punish. You speak in a very loud robotic hiss and make love like a vampire bear. Your powers related to torturing those who have wronged your people, your techne-body. You no longer see the difference in your cyborg body and your purely Code body (see Electroscout below), but you do see the difference in the mission/non-mission, in patriot/non-patriot. Another Kafkan class, doomed to the system. But perhaps self-punishing, really. Self-trapping. So sterile as to be undead. Marked by a predilection for flamethrowers.
  • Cryoscout / Chronoscholar (time-hopping reporter) – You are frozen for years, decades, perhaps centuries at a time. Your order calls for you to live many lives, all partial, inchoate, interrupted. You find out some key piece of information and go back into Deep Freeze, in your own private, secret Freezer. Your powers relate to memory, staying calm despite wildly various conditions on each un-freeze, and of course surviving the Deep Freeze. Perhaps you exude a certain icy clarity, a resolve that others find superhuman. (You find it all reassuringly human—your adaptation, discarding of old “junk” memories, exploration-compulsion, curiosity.) Marked by blue rings around your eyes, you look old but may be, genetically, quite young. Perhaps you are only passing through this world and have access to a ship or transport device of some kind that will take you far away, soon. Perhaps that ship is broken…
  • Electroscout (teleporting Gibsonesque “I know kung fu” tracker/Coder) – Neural wayfarer, you roam the Code. The more you roam, the more you lose touch with your physical self and become partly Code, through and through: Your limbs shake when you are not plugged in. Your powers are the speed of thought: You slow “real” time with a blink or fart (what is “real,” anyway?) and dive via Code time to somewhere else. Some of your body stays; some comes with. You are always reassembling (cyborging) on the other end. Black hole/white hole, you are the scout of the future, the ranger of numbers, words, passphrases, and cryptic back doors in the glowing blacklight universe of the Code. You have an extra set of fingers, mechanical ones, for typing. Static charge is your bane, so you always stay grounded via you Slinksuit. Your body wastes away and must become mechanicalized. Eventually, you are pure spark.
  • Void Knight (self-taxidermy-ing warrior) – You are a knight who worships space, the vacuum… You prove yourself but cutting yourself open and filling that void with the Sacred Algae, or the Pure Angelic NanoEmulsion (P.A.N.E.). You can then later spit back out the PANE, or use it as a biosword. You can keep replacing more of your own terrible positive guts with PANE, gaining a PANE rating (a la Grit for gunslingers?) and doing more damage with bioweapons. But of course the problem is you become less and less human. Eventually, pure void, you are a PANE golem or “gray knight.” Until then, however, you welcome wounds and traverse canyons, via falling, to prove your vigor. You gain from loss, ungrounding yourself. You are a knight of the possible. Your order wears a red mark on each hand in the shape of an ouroboros or, for Void Champions, a red lion devouring itself, starting with its tail.
  • Void Priest / Echotemplar (Lovecraftian/Kafkan spy a la Aeon Flux) – You worship the aporias, the gaps, the abysses… You ride the gaps in knowledge, you ride sleep. You are able to travel via shadow and the lowered brain activity of sleepers. You also have a Slinksuit. You don’t prefer to kill, but to wound and to come back later, via the wound. You don’t worship absences, but shadows—not what is not-there, but the trace that something was there. You are the echo of its having been. Because of this, you may mimic the actions of others, but only for a certain time (usually only once). As you grow more powerful, you may mimic other voids, including, eventually the dead—returning as them, inhabiting what they once were, and tricking the living. For this reason, your order is hated and feared. You love turtles, for they hide nothing—neither their method of transportation (theirs being unhurry; yours being shadow), defense (theirs being self; yours being mimicry), nor ornament (theirs being shell; yours being what remains unseen).
  • Plague Alchemist / Geneminer (Naked Lunch master chemyst) – You create the biological death totems that will end us. But you didn’t want to! At first. You were trained in doctoring, in saving lives, in researching cures, in learning about our tissues and brains, when you discovered that it’s easier, more fun, and more profitable to make new weapons… Now you’re an addict. You kill the mice for fun and blame it on the other mice, who then must go as well. You have engineered a plague to keep your quarters below the Imperial Gene-Mines extra clean, and yet there’s always something foul buzzing or oozing about. Oh well. You sigh and drink another vaccine against your own creations. You are engineering yourself into something else. Mad chemist, Hyde and Dr. Hyde. You kill your friends accidentally, with a sneeze. Your blood is hot to the smell. You want to go back, but no one can go back in time. Or if they can, they never taught you… Favorite colors: Christmas! Red and gack.
  • Plague Warden / Patholog Primitive (masochistic healer) – You keep the plague in. You cure diseases by taking them on, by letting your body learn them, spitting back out (literally) a cure. You are a little nuts, admitted. But you have a good heart. Or what once was a good heart and is now a multiheart, with various valves scarred due to a rolling pathocombat that you barely notice any more. Your sweat is like honey and sought after by the sick. You must fend off a constant stream of patrons. You are a solitary, the opposite of a metrovert. Because of this, you are always running. You love good running sandals. You are also always bloated, due to ingesting non-ingestibles, including rocks (for digestion, for calcium, for iron) and the beaks of holy N-dimensional birds (flatjays, Xhawks or “hawkx,” reaverstorm ultraquails, side-crows, paravens, etc.).
  • Cryptoreaver / Analog Murderer / Quantum Blood-Tumbler (in-the-dark barbarian) – Your powers are secret. Even to you. When a fight breaks out, you lose control of yourself and wake up in a daze. How did you win? You just want to know. The system is broken, you feel. Fate cheats you. You have developed a primitive religion based on antipathy towards the world and its mechanics. For now, you refuse to take any action. You don’t want to fight (and win, inevitably). And yet… they keep mocking you. They keep hiring you—good offers, too. What are you supposed to do, starve? No, you descend into the muck of the battlefield, and your mind keeps tricking you: Maybe this time they’ll be some sign… Your sign is the empty sign, the cipher, the question mark, the interrobang. You write letters to entities that don’t exist, and the others with you tell you to lighten up. Take their advice: Develop an addiction. Take your mind off victory. No one, perhaps, ever really knows the pain of #winning like you; but if you forget yourself (opiates help), then no one knows, period. Huzzah! 😦

Are these prestige classes? Probably, right? I don’t fucking know… Comments (esp. class mechanics for these or other X+Y suffix/affix prestige classes) = welcome.

Also/random: Here’s a great random wacky class generator. Not the one I used, but still.

Also, here’s my earlier post on classes in the far future >>


One Comment

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  1. Wythe / Dec 31 2011 3:25 am

    FOUND IT. Here’s where I started:

    Just clicked again and got “fang monk.” Still love it. I would play a fang monk fo sho.

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