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823 checks

No cologne this time -- only a faint, metallic scent.

A mild, yet regrettably symmetrical case of double-strabismus.

You hear excited screams from behind you.

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

You hear someone's voice singing, but only for a moment.

An involuntary twitch takes over one eye. A short-circuit, a glitch.

A minute passes.

Another minute passes.

Experience the flow of time.

An odd, slight peal sounds when she moves. Like distant bells, or the jangling of construction rods.

Skin burnt pinkish, hardened to elephant hide by exposure to the city elements.

The scent of a hundred thousand grubby hands and the insides of cash registers. The fibrous toughness of paper indissoluble in water.

Scratched and yellowed porcelain, a notable smudge on the lip of the seat... brown-ish.

Despite his predicament, he's kept up with hygiene. His beard is shaved, his nails well-manicured.

Focusing on the relentless black on white of the pages make your eyes strain with effort.

Their pelts are damp and shiny with rain. You expect the smell of wet dog -- there is none.

The heavily applied paint gives off a petroleum smell that sticks to the back of your mouth.

Incredible detail -- handrails, tools leaning on the shed, a giftshop sign. But the faces carved into the rock are featureless, unidentifiable.

You can see her eyes reflected in the glass.

Her nails scratch against your knuckles.

Looks like a shrine. Faces carved into mountain.

You hear their chitinous antlers crashing together like tiny little falchions.

You spot a shoulder strap around his left arm as he pushes back his coat. He's armed. This is one of the Lich's men.

The beetle continues, seemingly unaware of either peril or protector.

Fast, strong -- and the movement revealed a strap under his right arm. This is one of the Lich's guards.

Ooh -- that's sarcasm. You can tell by the longitudinal waves.

Crusted blood around the bottom of his moustache.

From the loose headphone speaker, you hear the faint sound of an electric piano, followed by an unmistakable voice.

Warm to the touch. It wants you to take it.

Kinda cool. But is that all you are, CASCADE? Kinda cool?

Find the best rack tat.

Secondhand olds and newish fakes.

Your heart convulses at their mention.

A purple and silver eyeshadow look with glitter stars is labelled 'The Violeta'.

You spot a flash of light from between the pages before she ruffles them away from you -- she's hiding something in there.

When she points to the rack you notice that her fingers are several shades too dark, as if stained with ink.

Following her line of sight, there's no sign of the guardia municipal officer who was loitering there itching himself earlier.

Following her line of sight, there's no sign of a guardia municipal officer.

A flash of light from between the pages. She's hiding something in there.

Following the kid's line of sight, you land on Petre, who stands at the front of his stall obsessively cleaning a disc.

Your tongue runs along the familiar edges of your canines.

An acceptable mimicry of a skull liquefying under extreme thermal stress.

The air is thick with stratas of smoke.

Guttural, breathless, and somehow strained, as though in the middle of some physical exertion.

As ever, he has a remarkable ear for the rhythms, the things that slip...

Sweet mercy! That's no human waveform!

The illusion's gone. You can hear him slurring.

The saliva smacking in his throat and mouth is louder than any words formed.

A chorus of hacking coughs, like cats throwing up furballs in unison.

You know what he means, but you can't help it: an apple-sized dollop of lard melts between hand and chest as you massage grey-tufted folds of old skin.

823 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 4 of 17