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789 checks

Thunder. The floorboards rattle underfoot.

Saliva drips from his fangs.

The monkey descends into a series of gnashing shrieks and limb spasming in excitement and outrage at your quest.

Warm expulsions of air on your knuckles, tickly.

The finger feel of the apology cards suddenly comes back to you.

He glances at the ceiling, eyebrows twitching.

Out of sight, but you can still faintly hear the choking rhythm of his heartbroken hoos.

It's like if fish could produce a cheese.

You can hear his breath, soft and ragged.

It is standing on what looks like a pile of stolen goods.

The wall is disturbingly moist. Like fresh morning dew on a tree trunk, but evil.

More giggles in the hallway, the sound of footsteps running away.

One tacks up a sign on the wall which says: 'WELCOME TO THE INTERNATIONAL PARTY CONFERENCE 66. PLEASE FLUSH'.

For a moment you think you catch the sound of a tambourine.

Chills run through you as the letters begin to spell out a plausible message.

The rows bore a hole somewhere in the centre of your forehead.

The machine whines on impact, but you feel nothing.

Pressing against your heart once more.

Hand-painted iris rings -- faint, but deliberate. Someone wanted this thing to stare.

Vinyl, or a rented tuk-tuk's dashboard. Not unpleasant.

Relatively deafening.

Clear skies tonight. Ideal conditions for sharing a cigarette on a sidewalk corner, companions permitting. Temperature 13 degrees and steady.

A little quiver here and there -- nervous system at full charge -- but she's stable.

Her skin: pale. Eyes: tired. Muscles: atrophying.

The heavy floorboards are spotted with motor oil and bootprints.

Something about... sleeping dogs?

There's nothing wrong with your eyes.

The muffled cracking of knuckles rattles through the sound of waves caressing the boat.

As he pronounces the name 'Gonza', a hair-tingling scream echoes along the canal.

His voice is so flat it brings the ceiling down a little, making your shoulders slump.

You can see the resemblance now. Karolina has his eyes.

The recirculated air smells like antiseptic and wet dog hair.

Marco would have been fathoms beneath Tempo's sphere of awareness.

But her voice trembles with relief.

Two aero-trams criss-cross somewhere above you. The apartment's windows rattle in their frames.

A barrage of words -- none of them an outright refusal.

The way she says your name is stiff, somehow. Like she's forcing herself to say it that way.

No backhanded retort, no reflexive insult.

Three breaths fill the room -- two in perfect sync.

One of her eyes disappears behind exhaled smoke. The other eye stays on you.

Someone leans on a fader marked 'The World' and all sound dips out for a moment.

The soft piano music rises again, nearby yet very far beyond you.

The air in the apartment is very stale all of a sudden. Cigarette smoke swirls like a spell.

Your heart begins to thunder.

A distant door slams somewhere beyond you. The soft, stifled piano carries over muffled laughter and child-velocity footsteps from the apartment above.

Sudden, intense déjà vu curtains your mind.

A distant door slams somewhere beyond you. The soft, stifled piano carries over muffled laughter and child-velocity footsteps from the apartment above.

A distant door slams somewhere beyond you. The soft, stifled piano carries over muffled laughter and child-velocity footsteps from the apartment above.

A distant door slams somewhere beyond you. The soft, stifled piano carries over muffled laughter and child-velocity footsteps from the apartment above.

789 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 6 of 16