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"You are a void... At least in my own darkness I can dream..."

His right pant pocket creases around something narrow and weighty. A switchblade.

You hear their chitinous antlers crashing together like tiny little falchions.

Wind at the fringes. Encircling. Unnatural pressure. A corridor.

He smiles with his eyes alone. You recognise yourself in the expression.

'Tell me what to do...'

Faintly, a round of offended cooing from the rafters.

Bloodshot eyes. He's fresh out of an episode. One that nearly killed him.

A slight flush to her cheeks -- she really did like that you offered.

Her gaze performs a quick triangulation -- blood smear, cut palm, you.

Her blood a black streak on the stone, already starting to dry.

A miasma of fear-chemicals fills the air already rank with piss and the iron-scent of blood.

A different, gelatinous sheen coats the surface of his extruding eyes. Never tears.

He seems bred for observation.

You catch a glimpse of a deformed hairless face, bone-white skin, flaring simian nostrils.

Horrific chemical orgasm. A hallucinogenic purge of everything stored within the brain's archives, known to the laywoman as life flashing before your eyes.

A faint but all-encompassing shiver passes through the old man like a tree-shaking wind. Then it's gone -- the tree resettles, a few leaves less than before.

17 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual