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299 checks

The heavily applied paint gives off a petroleum smell that sticks to the back of your mouth.

His only source of relief is the sweat seeping into the fabric of his wind-whipped collar.

His tie is loose, beads of sweat glint off his neck. A desperate odour emanates off him.

A resonant thud. Heavy bottom glass on desktop.

You hear her breath so clearly that you feel its phantom on your neck. As far away as ever, and somehow within reach.

She makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh.

Adoration in every hit.

Small creaks as he sways.

The coat's distinctive colour flashes a face within your mind.

You didn't see anything resembling a 'tank' down there, unless there are sub-levels yet to uncover...

She keeps glancing at those dirty dishes; you could offer to help while she explains.

Keeping it quiet wouldn't go amiss.

One props up a sign which says: 'INTERNATIONAL PARTY CONFERENCE PARTY 66'.

An involuntary twitch takes over one eye. A short-circuit, a glitch.

A minute passes.

Another minute passes.

An odd, slight peal sounds when she moves. Like distant bells, or the jangling of construction rods.

Skin burnt pinkish, hardened to elephant hide by exposure to the city elements.

The scent of a hundred thousand grubby hands and the insides of cash registers. The fibrous toughness of paper indissoluble in water.

Scratched and yellowed porcelain, a notable smudge on the lip of the seat... brown-ish.

Despite his predicament, he's kept up with hygiene. His beard is shaved, his nails well-manicured.

The heavily applied paint gives off a petroleum smell that sticks to the back of your mouth.

Ooh -- that's sarcasm. You can tell by the longitudinal waves.

Crusted blood around the bottom of his moustache.

Kinda cool. But is that all you are, CASCADE? Kinda cool?

Secondhand olds and newish fakes.

Your heart convulses at their mention.

You spot a flash of light from between the pages before she ruffles them away from you -- she's hiding something in there.

Following her line of sight, there's no sign of the guardia municipal officer who was loitering there itching himself earlier.

Following her line of sight, there's no sign of a guardia municipal officer.

A flash of light from between the pages. She's hiding something in there.

Your tongue runs along the familiar edges of your canines.

The air is thick with stratas of smoke.

Guttural, breathless, and somehow strained, as though in the middle of some physical exertion.

As ever, he has a remarkable ear for the rhythms, the things that slip...

The illusion's gone. You can hear him slurring.

The saliva smacking in his throat and mouth is louder than any words formed.

Now you see it. Camouflaged in wrinkles, a necktie of scar tissue nestled in the folds of his throat.

Stuck on 'PAUSE'.

He hurriedly smooths down the single patch of hair which time has yet to steal from his head.

Sweetly sickening. Like a thousand strawberry air freshners all at once.

A stickiness now taints your fingertips. You try to ignore the faint smell of lube and fecal residue.

The sound of wet flesh slapping.

The obscenely loud crunching sounds rattle through your skull. It's like he's pulverizing gravel.

Muffled noises emanate from within.

Smells like pine needles.

Beneath the city's murmurs, the soft rustle of read/write heads gliding across a disk.

You might as well be staring at the remains of coffee at the bottom of a cup.

Relays clack in a series of deep, satisfying clicks -- like pistol chambers locking into place.

They seem much better cared for than their owner.

299 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 2 of 6