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A shudder from your filing cabinet of memories. You've heard that before somewhere...

That 'institution' the subeditor mentioned... You've heard the name somewhere before...

A shudder from your filing cabinet of memories. You've heard that before somewhere...

A man runs away in your mind, zig-zagging towards an unknown fate, but still very much alive.

You remember the many times you have staked out a place, a person. All by yourself -- at all times, in all weathers.

That's the poetry magazine you got for Hauzmann. Glossy cover, pretty high-end.

That's the poetry magazine you have on you. Glossy cover, pretty high-end.

That's the poetry magazine you found in the book stand behind her.

It was the title of the report lying around when he asked you to clean. It was in front of you the whole time.

Before, she mentioned the magazine's sponsor is the 'Civilisation Trust'. It suddenly seems highly relevant that you recognise the name.

This is the woman the shrimping girl mentioned.

It's customary to 'invite' the angel to the festivities -- to bless the union.

This is a shrine to Sirius: angel of romance, war, and negotiation.

Inherited from your mother. The only decent thing she ever actually gave you.

The words from the disc that PSEUDOPOD was playing flash in your mind: 'Ultra Violeta - You But From a Dream'.

You recall the prisoner's voice, crackling into your ear.

The image forces its way back to you -- the man's unblinking, obsessive stare, while on the bed Ramses convulsed uncontrollably.

The image forces its way back to you -- Reno's unblinking, obsessive stare, while on the bed Ramses convulsed.

A pseudo-language stretching back centuries, cobbled together from imperial slang and colonial patois. You first learned of its existence after joining the Opera.

You recall the faint clinking of glasses, just a few metres away.

Even you have memorised the names of their cartoon wolves.

Rustam Fatihler, the Conqueror, sought centuries ago to unite the myriad warring tribes of the peninsula under a single banner, hence, the Dream of Rustam.

And after all this time, the Protectorate of Rustam amounts to two meagre towns, devoid of resources, kept propped up by foreign funds. That, you know.

'It is a good thing yesterday was not the end of history after all.'

Timestamp: five years, three months since last contact.

The Weeping Eye's interrogator class.

You flash back to the memory of planting that cricket with Ramses, how it had trembled in his hand for a moment...

RADIAN: no mention of epilepsy found. Medical conditions: left blank.

A good deal of Ramses' equipment always consisted of improvised devices cobbled up from the cannibalised remains of consumer electronics.

It's Reno. The richest man in Portofiro here, in this dilapidated houseboat.

Ramses Tayed Al-Fatik Molloy. Plague metal worshipper. Pristine blunt roller. Rustamian refugee. Ultimate warlock of chill.

Never to be forgotten.

A far-off sense memory: the taste of your thumb, once-soothing, suddenly bitter and sour. Painted with foul-tasting polish to keep you from sucking it.

Hazy memories flick by. Among them, you see the amalgamation of bitter flesh that birthed you, sitting like a creature in her lair.

Operant CASCADE is classified ONLY CHILD. Understanding of sibling dynamics best described as 'theoretical'.

A vulnerability leaked to the Opera in 87, courtesy of a disgruntled engineer who had defected to the People's Republic.

You remember the first batches of number, at least. The right combination must be among what's left.

You roughly remember where you stopped last time. Whatever's left, you'll have to try all over.

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.

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

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

Now they remind you of her.

It wasn't actually your birthday, you just said it was.

What she means is the real account will be buried in a centre-held file for 30 years. You will never so much as glimpse the outside of its folder.

Pencil sounds disconcertingly impermanent.

The sensation will haunt you.

The words circled beneath the doctor's signature return to you.

You know the next words. You've been hearing them since you got here.

In Mircea you knew only cold and austere churches of fine stone, all consecrated to the One Indivisible God.

517 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 9 of 11