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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.

Smoke unfurls from his nostrils, like an ancient dragon.

His eyes acquire a ceramic-like quality. Brightly dead, impenetrable.

If there was any sarcasm in that phrase, it flew way over his head and directly into the Noscorrentes sea.

You've heard him talk, you know his arrogant, fast-talking manners -- he's faking the stutter as part of the roleplay.

Nodding mechanically, eyes glazed over and gently smiling, it's hard to tell how much he's even understanding.

Not the slightest sign of surprise. Supreme, unfeigned spiritual indifference.

His brow furrows, as though struggling not to let the idea through.

He still doesn't quite believe it.

The faces. 'Strange cousins' to Portofiran in more ways than one.

He doesn't try to hide the disappointment on his face.

He stalls momentarily as his brain computes the information.

His eyes are dark, tired, but still sharp.

Not dying. At least, not right here and now.

A syllable strains against his lips. He's trying to say something, but his jaw is locked shut.

He's asking you to hold back.

Behind the apparent chaos lies all the trappings of a carefully executed ritual. This isn't the first time. Not for either of them.

Still shuddering and a little incredulous, Ramses settles back into reality and examines you.

It doesn't care about the shed. It has licked itself clean, absolved itself.

This is no fascist. Look at that indifferent lounge, that fluffy coif...

Licked clean. It has absolved itself of him.

You clearly never grew out of the oral fixation stage. This explains the hard candies, the cigarettes...

You clearly never grew out of the oral fixation stage. This explains the cigarettes...

You clearly never grew out of the oral fixation stage. This explains the hard candies...

He keeps his hands loose, but he's coiled within, like a mauled animal.

He tries to conceal it, but something in his voice tells you he's more concerned about Ultra Violeta's fate than that of the Grand Lich.

This door opens for someone, that's why there's an intercom. You just need her to tell you who.

First blood: CASCADE.

Genuinely upset.

Leather jacket, moustache and military cut. A face that could fluctuate wildly between innocence and depravity depending on the setting.

A distinction that will preoccupy you in the small hours for many years to come.

774 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 14 of 16