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291 checks

You hear excited screams from behind you.

Incredible detail -- handrails, tools leaning on the shed, a giftshop sign. But the faces carved into the rock are featureless, unidentifiable.

Looks like a shrine. Faces carved into mountain.

You spot a shoulder strap around his left arm as he pushes back his coat. He's armed. This is one of the Lich's men.

Fast, strong -- and the movement revealed a strap under his right arm. This is one of the Lich's guards.

When she points to the rack you notice that her fingers are several shades too dark, as if stained with ink.

Sweet mercy! That's no human waveform!

You know what he means, but you can't help it: an apple-sized dollop of lard melts between hand and chest as you massage grey-tufted folds of old skin.

The old man's normally yellow skin blooms an almost purple-shade of red.

The wind rustles the bushes nearby as if hushing those who might speak.

For a second, you could swear you hear the whistle and chirp of a real dolphin.

His yellow plastic visor sears in the sunlight.

Plastic threads show signs of stretching before having snapped. Effort was needed to achieve this.

The stink of chlorine and guilt.

Far below, a rhythmic thumping. Organic maybe. And is that the smell of sweat you detect?

Hissing radio silence. The darkness between planets.

That holds. Nothing would be audible beyond twenty kilometres.

Somewhere on a distant hill, a wild dog howls. In your nostrils, the rabbity scent of fear.

The smell of beeswax.

There -- close to the centre, amid the hundreds of black squares, there is a single asterisk, blinking slowly. It can only be the Renotel Artery's location.

The mess of black squares swims before your eyes. You have no idea.

Not normal paper. This is nitrocellulose, made to burn quickly and completely.

Her eyes are bloodshot, hair lank.

The words fade almost to nothing as they leave her mouth.

Bureaucratic object permanence. Out of sight, out of existence.

It travels up through your elbow like a kiss from loose, ungrounded wiring.

Dark bookshelves, eerie silhouettes of medical equipment. The faint grey outline of a desk, no one sitting behind it.

Not much else, though. Too dark.

Saliva drips from his fangs.

Warm expulsions of air on your knuckles, tickly.

The finger feel of the apology cards suddenly comes back to you.

He glances at the ceiling, eyebrows twitching.

Out of sight, but you can still faintly hear the choking rhythm of his heartbroken hoos.

It's like if fish could produce a cheese.

You can hear his breath, soft and ragged.

The rows bore a hole somewhere in the centre of your forehead.

The machine whines on impact, but you feel nothing.

That hurt. A lot. Expect mild bruising.

Hand-painted iris rings -- faint, but deliberate. Someone wanted this thing to stare.

Clear skies tonight. Ideal conditions for sharing a cigarette on a sidewalk corner, companions permitting. Temperature 13 degrees and steady.

Her skin: pale. Eyes: tired. Muscles: atrophying.

The muffled cracking of knuckles rattles through the sound of waves caressing the boat.

His voice is so flat it brings the ceiling down a little, making your shoulders slump.

The recirculated air smells like antiseptic and wet dog hair.

The way she says your name is stiff, somehow. Like she's forcing herself to say it that way.

Three breaths fill the room -- two in perfect sync.

One of her eyes disappears behind exhaled smoke. The other eye stays on you.

Someone leans on a fader marked 'The World' and all sound dips out for a moment.

The soft piano music rises again, nearby yet very far beyond you.

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