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Ramses may be high, but this guy is somewhere in low-orbit.

Somewhere behind his bloodshot eyes, a slow, yet impeccable calculation emerges.

A childishly stylised gesture, practiced for countless hours in front of a mirror.

This man isn't just high. He's on a dirigible coasting stratospheric over the Noscorrentes Sea.

Oh yeah. He's catastrophically high.

If Ramses is high, this guy's on a zeppelin coasting over the Noscorrentes Sea.

The jovial words are accompanied by a shaky voice as if from some kind of wounded animal.

Struck a nerve there.

Too quick. Practiced.

He shakes his head slightly, as if having forgotten the concept of business matters entirely.

He smooths back his hair, temporarily revealing the creaselines of stress beneath.

Curious, not surprised.

He wants you to be gone when he opens them again.

Certain lies are so brazen they offend on professional grounds.

Underneath the cold and calculated exterior, rage boils.

Hmmmmmmmm. Does this guy fuck or not? An impenetrable mystery.

The first time she's reckoned with another person turning against her. The real her.

Slightly self-conscious all of a sudden.

Genuine. You've intrigued a famous person.

Like an unfavourable omen.

Aimed for nonchalance, flew wide of the mark.

Light blooms behind her pupils.

Not fading. Shimmering.

You watch her nose physically turn upward a few degrees.

'Never. Please.'

"What mission are you on? Who sent you?"

Her eyes sparkle, delighted. She's inviting you to participate in the ritual humiliation of a third party.

She is into this. Use it. Flirt, get her drunk.

Relaxed, casual. She assumes you're like her, that you feel the same way.

Visibly relieved.

No change in expression or posture. She seems genuinely unperturbed.

Her face adjusts, then sets. She believes this.

His eyebrows meet in the middle as he contemplates this new aspect of being.

She winks, her finger tracing the rim of her glass -- she thinks you're in on a secret.

This is a normal woman, doing her normal job. She has no clue that she's just ferried up a contingent of the Weeping Eye.

She's playing it too normal. File under 'Goon, potential'.

The autopilot is immaculate, all things considered.

Opposable thumbs- check.

He strips you naked with his gaze, on his expression a desire that is not lust.

The last time you spoke, there was a hint of desperation in how he insisted he was the original. Not anymore. Now he's had days to indoctrinate the idea into himself.

A fanatic's certainty, forged through sheer trauma.

The posture suggests prayer, but a violent one -- every muscle clenched and quivering.

The light cowers from you.

Excitement sliding into her voice. This gorefest is a painting of her own personal revenge.

A slightly weightless tone in her voice. Gravity suspended.

His voice is reasonable, calm -- utterly at odds with the sparks of fear behind his eyes.

And he can't wait to tell you.

312 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 5 of 7