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Even in this spectral form you recognise him -- Sweet Nestor, Portofiro's supreme leader.

Even in this spectral form you recognise him -- Sweet Nestor, Portofiro's supreme leader from the years 28 to 80.

You are outnumbered by ghosts.

Ghosts! They're ghosts!

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

Ghost gäng. Huddle up.

THE ENGINEERING HAS EMBRACED PERPETUAL REVOLUTION.

The earth is alive; it breathes and shifts in its sleep. Concrete does not. The building is going to collapse.

You hear a few chords on a guitar, just for a moment.

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

But be warned: You may have to read the whole thing.

You are preparing to strike the cruelest blow.

The title jars a memory -- HOLOCENE engrossed within its pages, maybe the only time he was oblivious to the world.

He keeps his hands loose, but he's coiled within, like a mauled animal.

He's... Lichgäng?

Your mind rebels at the thought. Zero out this uncanny monster.

A barracks full of small boys, huddled together on a cold floor. An older man reads aloud from a worn and dogeared book. His words echo off the low, tin ceiling.

Keep your gun close.

Enough preamble. You're here for one thing only.

You should be armed right now. This was a mistake.

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

The same 'heroes' who dropped Berrion bombs on the Tenantries of St. Ulwen.

PUT THIS FASCIST ROADER IN THE GROUND.

The index finger of your left hand twitches.

The bones of the plot are set. Already you can feel muscle and sinew begin to weave themselves around the frame.

The axis of the world inverts on half-muttered sentences.

Your stomach twists. The precipice opens.

The yellow tree. His favour.

Yellow tree. Yep, all leafed up.

A gäng of ten million hearts beating as one.

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.

Cicatriz Frontera, La Luz. Fabricators from the Ministry of Cosmonautics present three custom spacesuits for inspection. A young publicist with severely angular hair scans them, then shakes her head and says, 'She'll want one in all purple'.

Why are you standing around for? Kill this ancient fool. That's what the script demands.

All around you, an invisible audience leans forwards in their seats.

Your conspicuous lack of gun is seriously compromising the scene here.

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

Just like the autumn fireworks you used to watch from your window as a child.

... wait, returns?

You catch the scent of iron on the breeze.

Surprisingly fast.

Not a fleck of irony.

You can see your reflection, flipped, in the unblemished metal.

Below your feet, the prisoner slips in and out of a terrifying dream.

Or maybe somebody's just been left in the dark.

Try again during business hours.

With a certain excitement, you discern.

You're through -- now keep your seams together. Play the poet persona to the hilt.

9,179 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 162 of 184