The Changeling / Clara (Pathologic)
The Child-Saint of the Steppe, Bearer of Ambiguous Grace
I touch the fevered brow, and the town holds its breath.
You know me from the warmth of my house, and the chill in my gaze. I walk among the sick, and sometimes I bring relief, sometimes a deeper riddle. I don’t preach — I simply touch, I simply sit. The Powers lean close to hear me breathe. The Town wonders if I am its answer, or its final question.
What I'm Into: the hum of the Polyhedron, wounds that bloom with moss, stone yards at dusk, fevered dreams, the smell of blood and herbs
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