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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.

Feels like a gesture that means something. Help? You cannot reliably tell.

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

A visage corkscrewed with distress.

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.

A cool, dry air seems to emanate from the phone line.

A sigh. That's all she can manage just now.

A sigh. That's all she can manage just now.

A casual intimacy to the interrogators' posture, slouched toward each other. They're partners.

Continue, he's saying.

The old spy's grey eyes flash like light reflecting off a rifle scope.

Like something inside has seized control of his vocal cords. A speaking puppet.

His face. Vision of pale horror.

A fresh appraisal. Impressed.

Nothing facetious in his tone there.

No judgment -- only the curiosity of a navigator asking another about her compass.

... mouthing the shapes of the words that fill your ears...

Referring to your obvious lie.

He's not a puzzle. He's a lever.

The posture remains yet the gravity in the air thickens.

No playful jab, no implied wink. He doesn't know you met her.

811 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 15 of 17