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303 checks

An obscure pleasure, one only accessible to sensitive minds.

A failed metaphor, in other words.

The cuts and drapes speak of sun-baked streets, old plazas, and afternoons that meander towards the horizon.

Borderline insane.... but on the right side of aesthetics.

Why would a leviathan hunt down a single minnow?

The mouth muscles contorting into every shape they know, producing random morphemes that latch onto words from every language floating around the brain.

Haunting images of torture surround your mind. In seconds, imagined people deform into blistering, moaning creatures -- writhing in what's left of their insides.

Instrument in hand on his sickbed, he could easily be a dying melancholy poet strumming away on his lute.

Something tells you your head would fill with nasty images right now if your imagination was a little more vivid.

Galaxies of desperation sucked into the pupil's widening void.

Don't deny potential pleasures -- revel in the excesses offered by the material world!

Express yourself or die boring.

An intricate configuration that reminds you of the night sky.

A cheat? There lies the scoundrel's way. No thrill in that, no panache!

The bones of the plot are set. Already you can feel muscle and sinew begin to weave themselves around the frame.

Translucent and grotesque, like an electronic gecko molt. It will never be skin again.

It's like she's handing you a trophy cup with the corpse of a small animal in it.

Lightly, like an artefact he's both drawn to and afraid of.

The sign for the ritual of death to begin.

Strange man. Strange wishes. Strange destination.

A name whispered among tutors and veterans, invoked like a demon from a lost mythology.

Cue your main theme -- synth-driven, with a few woodwinds and an upright bass tossed in for organic effect.

Grounded, wet trail, retreated into his shell... not bad at all.

An effulgent burst of colours, the blast passing through buildings, turning bodies to particulate matter.

Spoken like an artist admiring a rival's technique.

Like a dead octopus smothered and forgotten about.

A consecrated ground of tiny, crooked monuments.

That's the brand slogan.

Sublimity. Terror. As though you'd unexpectedly flashed one of the faces of God at him.

A single-use existence, erasing himself cell by cell.

Underlying the criticism is a lament that his own paranoia has no willing audience.

No one will ever Get It the way he does.

The odds were never in your favour anyway. Trust her to pull this off.

Something dark has risen within her, eaten all the colour from her soul.

Old joke: what's the difference between a victim and a martyr? You can't remember the punchline, now.

A bouquet of dead fascists to lighten the burden of being you.

Hoping for a future in which she has unlocked a state of permanent bravery.

You picture the vivid yellow of her new raincoat splattered with her blood.

Curtains twitch at the windows. Inside, stacks of dog-eared dream and memory contaminate each other.

Curtains twitch at the windows. Inside, stacks of dog-eared dream and memory contaminate each other.

Filth soiled by cleanliness.

Like watching flies bounce off a pane of glass.

A deranged connoisseur, lost at the outer edges of human pleasure.

The way he stares into your eyes-- scrutinizing them for evience of horrors witnessed.

Pupils track you like a cornered animal trying to recognise the butcher.

You could build a garland of the small white blooms, wear it in your hair. Trail a path of perfume behind you.

A decent imitation of Cengiz Balik's style of free verse, but they could have gone harder with the adverbs.

'It' rides into battle under polychrome banners, lance shining with the hopes of the people. 'It' wears a suit of steel. Women and homosexuals throw flowers at its feet.

The art's been shit, though.

303 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 6 of 7