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Say a prayer to Polaris.

For the gambler palming a final chip; for the veteran lacing up boots cracked at the heels; for the fool stepping into the current and demanding the river change course.

High pressure tries to expand from the direction of the Eastern Republics, but low pressure from the Noscorrentes region will continue to compete. Conditions likely to remain unsettled throughout the week, seek comfort in the familiar.

A coastal wind slips through a ground-floor window and brushes a man's thinning hair. His eyes open, awash with impossible colours swirling like oil in water -- before closing again.

A pit of hopelessness opens in your stomach as you skim the rows of faces.

The shrine lacks the sacred air of Mircean churches you knew as a child -- it is an organic thing, maintained by locals of their own volition.

BEHOLD HOW THE MASSES ARE CHOKED BY INSIDIOUS ABSTRACTIONS.

He was alluding to something.

Pulled himself up by his bootstraps. Well done for him.

He's scared shitless.

One more drink and he won't make it.

HA-HA. THE DRUNK FASCIST CANNOT STOP HIMSELF FROM REVEALING ALL OF THEIR SECRETS.

NO. RECORDS. FOUND.

Is he alluding to something?

Ah, no gäng, we're gonna start feeling sorry for him like this.

LET HIM SPEAK. LET HIS LOOSE LIPS SINK THE SHIPS OF THE FASCISTS.

There's no craft here -- only despair.

EXECUTION BY FIRING SQUAD IN A DILAPIDATED SHED BEHIND THE MUSIC FESTIVAL GROUNDS.

You are very lucky that the maestro has your back.

He can't hold on for much longer.

Hurt. Everywhere.

Only his left eye looks at you. The other one seems to have lost focus and is well off-target.

Keeping watch. The warden of the streets.

Whose cat is that?

He is extremely out of joint.

Uh-oh gäng... incoming pity-party!

It's maybe a good time to have a cigarette.

Uh-oh gäng... incoming pity-party!

This man is on the brink of complete defeat.

That cat over there.

Alcohol on his breath.

He must have been going at it for a while.

He has most likely had between one to seven drinks.

SEIZE THE HISTORICAL MOMENT TO GET THIS HIGH-RANKING TECHNO-FASCIST OUT OF YOUR WAY.

This man should not be alone right now.

You really shouldn't waste your time with this.

Its 'eyes' find yours, even through the haze of crimson.

Debrief the Small Controller.

You'd know that cadence anywhere...

You extracted a small lump or organic matter. You did not extract the brain.

Far past the realm of ordinary paranoia, you have stumble into the territory of superstition, the unknown areas of maps where monsters once proliferated.

No. There's nothing to consider. Your brain cells rebel at the thought.

'Small controller' or 'former double' -- both possible entities are devious in their intelligence.

This ends here. Close the door on the madness you have unleashed upon yourself.

YOUR ORDERS COME FROM THE OPERANT BUREAU, NOT FROM GRISTLE IN A JAR.

Parasite. Deceiver. Kill.

Skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 109 of 197