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He hasn't said her name in a very long time.

That's it. Lecture over.

He's genuinely delighted you said that.

Even through the drunken haze, you can tell he was impressed.

He's not lying -- it was all above board. Just morally on the floor.

Stressed, liquid, junior? It can only be that hopeless fool hooked to the sex line.

Radiating with grubby intent.

If there is any kind of moral conflict churning below the surface, he does not show it.

In his mind, magnitude is all.

A glimpse of steel submerged behind his bloated jowls.

If you squint extremely hard you can imagine him heading up a negotiation table.

You're not dealing with the sharpest anything here, in case that needs to be said.

He's working off a memorised list.

No part of him is even trying to actually pretend.

Absolute, unshakeable certainty.

But not dead he reckons, by the way his face curdles.

Happiness, yes, but there's a restlessness too -- like she's uneasy being caught and held in this static photograph.

His jowels flap like a dog shaking off spittle.

Don't be fooled. He's making a mockery of you.

If this guy is a master of espionage he's playing an impressive bluff.

The big man was dozing off. Now he's trying to cover it up with a vulgar display of authority.

He grins with the maniacal intensity of a man who thinks he's found a weakness in god's armour.

He's no longer you, nor is he him.

Expression unreadable, as if you've caught her on the fringes of a dream.

This is a protracted suicide.

On the plus side: she's probably so psycho-fucked from this that she won't remember that you abandoned her.

He waves his hand in a circular motion, tracing the course of lost interest that will one day return.

True shock in her voice.

A sacrificial offering. Better than a pigeon.

Anthropomorphism is real. It is the human mind doing its best to interpret signals from beings that communicate in more estranged ways.

Something behind all the meticulous layers of professional politesse. A hunger. Not for food nor sex nor even, really, for beauty...

Followed up by looking around you, as if something else caught her attention.

That shrug was a little stiff. He's her type.

He can't have just been waiting for you.

Her demeanour softens ever so slightly.

Almost like she's offended, or can't stand to look any longer.

Keeps her voice low, even, and her eyes downcast.

Matches a certain hustler near the roundabout who calls you baby-girl.

That description almost fits Ramses, though you wouldn't describe him as heavyset, just big.

Taking in Vespar's face, then yours -- younger, not yet burdened by five years of guilt.

Quiet scepticism as she re-assesses you.

No sign of grief, though she appears faintly sad to be the bearer of bad news.

Never drank himself.

It took him a long time to warm up to people, but once he did he was loyal to a fault.

Slouched in the booth, affect too stiff to be believable.

You really were scrubbing the hell out of those tables. Probably scared a few people off.

Voice carefully neutral.

Her eyes dart across your face, trying to find reassurance.

Only a trace of sympathy.

Like she's explaining to a simpleton.

774 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 8 of 16