Plague/Spoken Dialogue

List of dialogue spoken by the Plague. These lines are played whenever the Haruspex is infected. Some play inside of the Abattoir regardless of infection status.

Pathologic 2

 * Your lips crack. Come, take my kiss.
 * I am not your foe. I love you. Do not push me away.
 * Shall I teach you how to fell me?
 * You're all yourselves. I can bind you. Let you come within one another's souls. One-from-many.
 * Flies. Rats. Bulls. Twyre. Whiteskin. Earth. Greatsea. All-world. There is more stuff in being than just menfolk. So much more.
 * A town is a gathering of folk. A man is a gathering of bodyworms. You are a town. You are a bodyworm.
 * I am the cure for the self.
 * You cleave. I tie.
 * I love you all the same.
 * I swallow you.
 * Menfolk are but toothed-wheels in this death-craft town. Only I am alive. Only I am.
 * There is more aching in birth than in death.
 * It aches to be born. It aches to grow. It aches to choose. There is no ache in death. Shall I kill you?
 * I'll take a hundred. Two might withstand me. But those two will be worth hundreds of hundreds.
 * I am the way to Heaven.
 * I am Earth. Earth alive.
 * Bridle me. Thwart me. Fell me. Then you will be God.
 * Do not kill me. I may be of worth to you yet.
 * Talk to me.
 * You kill bodyworms within you. But you are Earth's bodyworm. What shall she do with you?
 * Do you love your mother? Do you bethink her?
 * I am the warm bloodway binding you to other folk. I am the taut string of hatred betwixt you. I am the bond.
 * The blight is the salve.
 * I did not come here for you. I came for the Town.
 * Kill me, and Earth dies.
 * Life stands only as a struggle. I am not death. I am life.
 * Sundering. Greenhouse. Lockup. Weakness. Feebleness. Is this the doom you foresee for this town?
 * I am the flesh of the Earth. Kill me to kill her.
 * Kill me. Burn me. Unwrite me. Shield the weak. The feeble. The worthless. The thankless ones.
 * Whiteskin. Bos Turokh. Twyre. Goldbull. Worms, Earth-children. If I go, so will they.
 * Do no fear death. Life begins after it.
 * Only deor fear darkness and fire. Men stand before them.
 * I am fire. I am hearth. Do you feel your forehead warming?
 * Your hands shake. Let me help. I can help.
 * That spinning is newthought growing in your head.
 * Who can behold the kindliness of ache? Only dreadnoughts. Only grown beings, overstepping beings, daring beings. Ones with awoken souls, mighty thoughts. They can withstand ache. And wisdom.
 * No loss. No loss. Worthless. But overcome, maybe? A canny one can overcome. First, hear the shape of the all-world. Then, learn to behold deeply. All is filled with meaning. Things big and small.
 * So many beloved menfolk. So many dreadnoughts. So much to uncover yet. So much to do… teaching healers the gaze. Teaching menfolk to see the might and will of kindly Earth.
 * They listen without believing. Want to shun, break forever. They don't hear Earth. Who kills the sickness for the sake of the weak, kills Earth. Menfolk might merry-make, but will they truly live?
 * Foeless. Foeless! Why be foes? Why shun? Better to listen than to fight. Abiding and watchful is wisdom. Let the outlandish life dwell within you, and you will unearth answers. Is this not the task of a healer?
 * Folk bind into a whole body. Flesh through flesh, blood through blood, they weld. Rough skin. Dripping drool. One shares itself with the other, swallows the other. Such is the making of kindred.
 * Men love a world of men. But life is more than men. Life is manifold, overflowing. Flowing from body to body. You call this work "illness."
 * Is cleaving a selfsame body in twain not kindly? An open wound is a window into the world. A shout is an arm reaching out from a gaping mouth. Tearing a healthy body to shreds with illness is like breaking a nutshell.
 * A town is made of men. A man is made of motes. What is true of towns, is true of men. You float down streets like white blood motes. Like fool white blood motes in bloodways!
 * Is it true that that which is sick is always ugly? This is man's wrong. Men fear aching, and ill wish sickness.They break from each other, lock themselves in bedrooms and cleavings. For they are weak and fearful.
 * Sickness is an ordeal. Of fearfulness. The foolish die, the clever go further. If you knew it was a boon, would you not die? But what is lordly about seeking what is known?
 * It hurts men to outgrow their swaddling-cloth. It aches to shed old hides. When it runs at the seams, it aches. If you are too weak to bear it, you die.
 * It is said: "Only two standing, from a thousand thousands." They see sickness only as evil.They do not listen. They swallow their tears and spurn the breaking of their shells.
 * Who can behold the kindliness of ache? Only dreadnoughts. Only grown beings, overstepping beings, daring beings. Ones with awoken souls, mighty thoughts. They can withstand ache. And wisdom.
 * No loss. No loss. Worthless. But overcome, maybe? A canny one can overcome. First, hear the shape of the all-world. Then, learn to behold deeply. All is filled with meaning. Things big and small.
 * So many beloved menfolk. So many dreadnoughts. So much to uncover yet. So much to do… teaching healers the gaze. Teaching menfolk to see the might and will of kindly Earth.
 * Killing bodyworms within your body to keep living and growing; is that righteous? Why wouldn't Earth smother menfolk, Earth's bodyworms, to keep living and growing? Earth has earthen wishes.
 * They want to overcome sickness, but can't bind things. The healers' fathers beheld it was about the dreadnoughts.They tore old binds, rightly. But no new ones were woven. So I come back.
 * Frightened of me the first time. Shut door before me. Wicked. Now they know me better; let me inside. Old fathers were clever. Dead by ill luck. But let me in, with a sake in mind. Knew my working.
 * Not here for menfolk. Tiny beings of silt and fog. Earth wonders how the Town fares. Wants to speak. Why did it grow? Why is it such? Not death, but life has come. It aches; it could not be otherwise.
 * They listen without believing. Want to shun, break forever. They don't hear Earth. Who kills the sickness for the sake of the weak, kills Earth. Menfolk might merry-make, but will they truly live?