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A consecrated ground of tiny, crooked monuments.

All across the city of Petre there is silence. People peer out fearfully from the slivers between curtains.

That's the brand slogan.

There's that word again...

The way he pronounces that word reminds you of old religious women spitting out curses before sanctifying themselves.

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.

You make a mental note: Petre, Unwilling Wolf-Lore Master.

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

No one will ever Get It the way he does.

She attempts to smile on the last word, an unnatural twitch like broken clockwork.

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.

Today, maybe tomorrow, even yesterday -- the day is made up as it goes along.

She'll cry so hard that little Karolinas will sprout from the ground where her tears fell.

Also, just to keep you grounded -- fantasies save you all the time.

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.

Coloured like the memory of a wound.

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

Vicarious living achieved. You know you haven't ingested anything, but you are without a doubt a little high.

A failure of imagination. You just feel left out. If anything, you sober up.

The freezer is broken, the meat is going bad. Dr. Gonza labours on in hot storage.

Filth soiled by cleanliness.

You have stepped through a portal to another time, where ailments are understood in terms of humours and bile of various colours, and the treatments prescribed can range from leeches to trepanation. All bets are off.

Belonging to the order of things that should not exist.

Like watching flies bounce off a pane of glass.

Must be some kind of mystical euphemism.

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.

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

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

A vision of a future stillborn.

They'll ask for the moon.

The intensity in her gaze changes colour. A subtle new hue eats into the trembling edges of her dilated pupils that you haven't seen before and can't quite name.

Perhaps you can love a lie so much that it becomes the truth.

The medium of hum simply doesn't allow for anger.

The moment crystallises. The world is empty save for you and your enemy.

Meat dragged out of the freezer starts going bad the minute it is done thawing.

Best to engage your subject first. Get into his soul. You can't rush quality.

You suddenly picture Melita, Luzian features behind her clipped, trained Kohilan accent, smiling to herself as she manipulates you from a control room just across the Noscorrentes.

Improvise a sick line before you shoot him.

Sky burial by seabirds. The gulls will pick the scant papery skin from his bones.

Certain deaths can't help but take on a metaphorical quality.

She is a cold moon in your eternal orbit. Trust the invisible geometry. It will hold.

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

714 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 14 of 15