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823 checks

Your heart flutters at her name.

You hear her stifle a yawn.

She moans, softly. Hairs rise along your arm.

That's Melita's accent.

A shock through your body, the colour draining from your face. You shudder with pleasure.

You gasp, you throb. You're just shit, you're just you.

Goosebumps, everywhere, your body alight with pleasure.

You can feel it, your body tense, your skin ready for the shock...

Deep, cold, agonising pleasure. You writhe.

You feel it, the sweet cold release of metal death.

The kitchen light hums and splinters momentarily.

No existential effacement detected with this one. Nice.

Or maybe that's just your vision burning prismatic at its folding edges.

But, below that: vanilla, must. The pulpy fragrance of paper.

The pads of your fingers itch.

Your skin prickles, coursed by sudden static.

Your breathing is amplified by the transmitter held at your mouth.

In the background, the creak of wood, an aging door used only by the wind.

Sounds like a war fought with the sharp-end of noise.

It feels like your brain is being massaged, each stroke bringing a wave of blissful pleasure.

Your vision darkens at its periphery.

Linen in soft cream, dusty ochres and pale sand.

The flash of a gold tooth near the back of his mouth.

A single missed thread in the neat chain at the hem.

You're going to have to take his word for it.

His shirt is low enough to expose a tangle of chest hair.

Crackling, soft warm smoke equal parts sweet and musky fills your mouth.

As you prepare to get back into it, you notice the name on one of the marked discs -- one you didn't see before.

Voice somehow constricted, as though some heavy object really were pressing down on her chest.

You catch a glimpse of a deformed hairless face, bone-white skin, flaring simian nostrils.

His silhouette flickers in the houseboat's dim lights. For a moment, all you see is a man untouched by the weight of your actions.

Six-hundred and fifty sol.

The sound immediately sickens you to your core.

Instruments do not sound like that. That was the scream of something alive.

You can see it properly now. Looks like a human skull frozen in mid-scream. Ritualistic symbols are inked all over.

Each flash reproduces the world in monochrome, and the body on the bed spasms in time.

From the floor, a noise -- low, almost human.

An audible crack in his spine as he arches backwards, crumpling.

Every signal hits you raw and simultaneous: reality blooms, light flashes, saliva strings.

Faded patterns. A great void of expression.

The sound reaches out to something in your heart, soothes it.

Bloody pawprints on the grass, none on its fur.

Gummy rubber tip gone brittle.

Sour-funky-staleness. A bit of lint from the bottom of the bag fuzzes against your tongue, but you taste none of the tell-tale earwax and aspartame flavor of ecstasy.

The smell that drifts from the soggy interior is an unpleasant mix of mildew and urine.

The smell that drifts from the soggy interior is an unpleasant mix of stale coffee and mildew.

The smell that drifts from the soggy interior is an unpleasant mix of sour alcohol and mildew.

Glug glug glug. A sickly sugary odor rises from the bag as the sticky beige liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. A rich acidic odor rises from the bag as the tar-black liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

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