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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.

Glug glug glug. A strong, slightly chemical odor rises from the bag as the thin black liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. A sweet, malty odour rises from the bag as the dark liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. An astringent, sickly-sweet herbal odour rises from the bag as the purple liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. An astringent, sickly-sweet herbal odour rises from the bag as the purple liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. A smoky odour rises from the bag as the clear liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. A thin, hoppy odour rises from the bag as the yellow liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

It's quiet. No activity behind the door. Once open, you should be in the clear.

Glossy metal finish, no hint of rust or weathering.

Confetti floats from above, a rainbow of crepe paper falling around your head and shoulders.

You hear a splat, followed by a man's yell. A woman cheers, 'Ectoplasm!'

One props up a sign which says: 'INTERNATIONAL PARTY CONFERENCE PARTY 66'.

For a split second, you're sure you can hear someone strumming a bass guitar.

You mark the features. The imperious nose. The fleshy cheeks.

Yellow tree. Yep, all leafed up.

The muzzle twitches and flashes, but no sound reaches you for a whole second.

You catch the scent of iron on the breeze.

Far left. A frame built for violence. Bulbous glistening skull shaved bare every morning.

Tk-tk-tk. The sound of a pen marking three boxes in short succession.

Increasing chance of precipitation as a front of high pressure moves across the Noscorrentes Sea. The temperature is 16 and falling.

Tk. The sound of a box being marked on a standard form.

Another tk. Another form.

Tk. The sound of a box being marked on a standard form.

Tk. The sound of a box being marked on a standard form.

Tk. The sound of a box being marked on a standard form.

The crease of latex against plastic, amplified in your skull.

Also visible: A micro-compact auto pistol and a blister pack of statins.

... a whoosh of blood between your ears...

High-pitched, dissonant. A sound that compels you to stop it.

... wet, silent, like a fish behind glass...

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