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Charge your pursuer.

Reach KALEIDOSCOPE.

You lean against the tram's movement, managing to maintain your balance.

You're struggling too. The floor is warped and shifting, your movement clumsy.

Controlled, subtle. The man has had formal training.

All those dance routines have given Ultra Violeta a sculpted ass. They need to incorporate glute exercises into their fan-shifting.

The motion is automatic, practised, self-soothing.

Those are just people who have no choice.

While he looks relaxed, his elbows and knees are locked, deliberately tensed like a spring.

Even the pelota ball, tossed back and forth by forces greater than itself, occasionally gets the chance to crunch against the nose of those who would try to catch it.

Deep inside narrow and winding mucosal cavities, stretches of black mould wither and perish in the chemical mist.

He struggles to wade through the sedatives still weighing him down.

This man has never seen athleticism.

Both too close and too far from himself.

His hand hangs limp beside him, trembling. The bottom of his palm is bloody from light scraping.

His standard of appearance suggests 'gambler on an eternal losing streak'.

The melody you've been unconsciously constructing suddenly unfurls itself in your mind. Two notes to stick the landing...

Play any old shit and wrap this up.

You remember the steps leading up to Portofiro's central station awash in blurring fractals. Your legs weren't yours; they just moved.

Wrong, that shit should be forefront.

You don't climb so much as glide; feet hovering over each wooden step, the chorded muscle of your biceps hauling most of your body's weight up the ladder.

Bruce had a whole lot of clothes at his shop, maybe you can play the part of the mage yourself.

You should do this kind of work more often. It suits you.

It can be finnicky, but you should have the nimbleness of finger to deal with that.

If only it were as trivial as that. Your dexterity may be severely tested.

Ultras, fly formation.

Wrong type of glass for a callomanic, should be in a tulip.

Ten inches and your lips will meet hers.

The gap can fit a whole shrine in there?

Her costume is a stylized but unemblazoned piece of Luzian military history.

Break into the mailbox.

Pupils dilate. Vessels flush under a quickening heart rate.

He blows as hard as he can against the world, but it blows back a thousand times harder.

A fundamentally flawed, but potent machine.

Massive? That's the second time you've heard about a majestic woman with a gigantic form. You must find out more.

You feel the weight of your fancy toy sword, suddenly.

None of his weight has been regained, but his movements are firm and his presence light.

A spectre in loose fabric, feeling out the contours of his own body -- just in case.

The slightest vibration, ordinary human unsteadiness.

All vestiges of humanity abandoned. One leg bent wrong.

The index finger of your left hand twitches.

Surprisingly fast.

You got a real nice spin on that thing. Smooth.

Gasping afterward like a drowning man emerging for air.

53 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual