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A shift in his tone. Barely disguised concern.

More background radiation than man.

The way he pronounces the name tells you there's no love lost there.

Her lack of expression is so blank as to be an expression itself.

A lopsided smirk on his face, an unusually light gait. The look of the expertly fucked.

In times of uncertainty people naturally gather in large groups, perceiving safety in numbers. This behaviour is widely observed even when the opposite is true.

For a moment, the character disintegrates.

He is daring you to doubt him further.

There is something you can perceive through his layers, but the form is too opaque to make out.

His stare is packing all the sympathy of a mass-produced medical device.

Watching is what he does, it is what he is.

Now. Turn the Sympathetic Stare on him. Look into whatever he has that you have also.

Look at him with a sympathetic stare.

No attempt to deflect or deny. He takes it all into himself like a landslide, generous and remorseless.

This is not a man who is dying. Something, however, is very wrong with him.

His hands have been wedged in his hoodie pockets since you approached.

This man is main quest complete, side quest curious.

Unguarded by his headphone helm, his neck seems strangely vulnerable.

Loss. Irreversible and total.

You can practically hear her foot lifting off the panic accelerator.

A drop of sweat rims his eye, which stares at you, serious and true.

They're just going about their days.

He's deteriorating. Rapidly.

The warmth in her voice dipped, only for a moment.

Here it comes, your favourite part. A vaguely stern woman is about to choreograph you.

That's her using the method on you. Feels different over the phone.

That's her using the method on you. Feels different over the phone.

Let her beg for mercy. You want to hear it.

That's her using the method on you. Feels different over the phone.

Still vibrating a little from the adrenaline and the death whistle, Ramses, too, slowly comes back into himself.

He thought he'd be dead. He isn't sure how to conduct himself alive.

One among their number turns to look at you, his technicolour robe billowing behind. He wears a small, neat moustache, as well as a large pair of headphones.

Something tells you that their teeth are yellowed with decay.

You know this voice. It's the man at the top of the financial pile -- Mr. Reno himself.

Unfortunately not your prisoner.

But you get an impression of the room. A vibration. Somewhere between crime scene and radioactive accident.

Her intonation is deliberate, forced. Direct to camera, gun just off-screen.

Her jaw is bound tight.

A shadow passes over her face. In the darkness, her pupils momentarily dilate.

You glean she is... largely unimpressed.

Her eyes dart left and right, machine-like. Occasionally they pause as she processes a thought before continuing.

It's as though you proposed something unseemly at the dinner table.

A look of worry, like she's just broken an agreement.

Nothing fake about her reaction.

Gulp. Dry mouth. A skeleton of fear.

An attempted smile fails to mask the pain behind it.

You detect a slight tremor in the hand holding the book she was reading.

He is genuinely surprised.

A casual, yet impressive assessment.

Superstitious at heart, you can almost see the shivers run down his spine as you stray into weird metaphysical territory.

811 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 14 of 17