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The Grand Lich of Techno-Fascism. Your target.

This girl is an antenna. A lightning rod.

A communal painting on the courtyard wall of a lunatic asylum.

Better that they don't know you exist at all.

Life is sad. That's the reason. Starts sad, gets sadder.

True dark. No light in the night sky but the dead stars.

You're speaking with its champion soldier. Its glass cannon.

The photograph is hard to look at, but easy to touch. When your fingers find its edges, a kind of strength charges through them.

Long-submerged dreams of popstardom float to the surface of your consciousness like drowned corpses.

A melancholic sledgehammer. The musical world would find itself ill-prepared.

Here we go. The spontaneous audition that launched a thousand collabs.

Because you fear it carries a curse. CASCADE, emissary of failure, death and the plague of human disunion.

Her gaze has both hold and fight. It takes effort to meet it evenly.

The passage engraved 'MID-THIRTIES' is soon to seal itself behind you, magic mountain cave-style.

He's made up his mind.

A high dose of adrenaline from such a small source. You were like that before the world got to you.

Impressive. No way this kid's a board inspector; whoever sent him on this 'mission' is way scarier than any pencil pusher.

He keeps glancing left to right -- nervous, cagey. But he seemed to add that last bit out of a sense of moral duty.

That did not look cool at all.

Existential dread is a foreign concept to her. Must be nice.

You imagine her drooling, twitching, brain a fine gruel.

You imagine her screaming soundlessly, both legs blown off and hanging by shredded flesh somewhere above her.

You imagine her crumpled and dead from a stray bullet, blood running down the front of her mirrored sunglasses.

Hopefully a nicotine-addled teenager with expensive taste is what the Lich saw, too.

Gut churn vertigo.

If she survives, she will be the first to be interrogated. They will make an example of her.

The vacant smile hits you like a bag of bricks.

An obnoxious little mirror, well-worth the seven years of bad luck incurred by breaking him.

He's like a laboratory where you can see what you actually think, stripped of all niceties.

He's like a laboratory where you can see what you actually think, stripped of all niceties.

Hope. The possibility of death in hostile rather than friendly hands is presently a comfort.

Seems like a natural for violence.

She is either well rehearsed or uncaring.

Out-stared. A small tactical victory.

Not all can bear the approach.

Afraid to carry any more of your words upon itself.

This is not a short term solution...

You'd say 'eerie'. An eerie moment.

He can't face them again. A part of him still believes he let them down.

Maybe breathing is slow-acting poison that takes eight decades to kill. Death's contingency when he can't get a clean shot at you.

You've done it before. You could do it again. Couldn't you?

The toys always seem to die horribly.

A shocking demotion. Rung number one on the ladder of being.

What does midnight alone feel like down here?

You'd take a week of the Weeping Eye fiddling with you over five years down here.

After a certain point the logic of betrayal becomes its own motive.

The size of a small cat's coffin.

He keeps mentioning this 'M.I.H.O.' thing... ominous.

He keeps mentioning this 'M.I.H.O.' thing... ominous.

604 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 9 of 13