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668 checks

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.

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.

Light flickers with the singsong iridescence of open flame. Candles.

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

And their attempts to self-edit in real time as they wrote.

'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.

And that smell -- equal parts evergreen forest and skunk gland, at once exotic and familiar.

The art's been shit, though.

A sickly bureaucratic rainbow, the decaying remains of the Opera's collective memory.

In the eternal struggle between main things and side things, you have chosen a side. The side of not really choosing.

Sometimes there's an installment so bad that the entire franchise has to be wiped from the collective consciousness...

You hear a great rustling -- a million trench coats unfolding like moth wings.

Memories projected upon a white bedsheet, rough with grain and burned by cigarettes.

The last gasp of heroic rock. They never lied and never sold out! The image and the reality were one.

Awkward imagery. Agglutinated constructions. The rhetorical mode of the age.

668 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 14 of 14