#static-limb

Carla: 5'7'.

Roll 15+5= 20

"I participated in a two week long retreat where I was expected to learn the basics of oil painting from several masters. I could already sketch, draw. It was peaceful, but I was terrible at what they wanted," she murmurs, thumping her brush against a canvas. Someone had left an easel out on the balcony overhang. It had been there for a week before she finally walked over to peruse the scattered supplies and started using them. It was a few days later.

She tried the view as a landscape a few days prior, and when that didn't work, the abstract shapes appeared. It was a bit disappointing how much her skills atrophied the first day.

She came back to it, attempting to repurpose the shapes and sculpt the landscape again. Linseed makes the colors run together and there's something there, sculptural blocks of land.

It had changed. Small murmurations like that echo in larger ones and larger changes. She'd changed too. On a microcosmic level, the alignments of everything with her body had shifted just enough to provide her with headaches.

There were periods of time where she was simply too infectious to exist in a social setting. It was a new symptom. When these cycles happened, the flora and fauna around her became infected. Thus... an army of little and massive creatures sprang up around her whether she wanted the company or did not.

She willed the little calamity in Hector's sooty hand to crook itself off the momentum of a leg and use Hector's hand as leverage to flip.

She snatched it back after a few minutes of study, slowly walking it over to the many ecosystem'd vivarium of other mysterious byproducts she'd been building. She slid the lid latch off, slowly letting the thing squirm off her hand into soft earth.

"I don't exactly have the space to be making much bigger beasts than you."

the sex questions for the nail polish remover bisexual

computers roll: 1 + 2 = 3.

"Beltway."

His voice is garbled by the mask that is his constant companion, his rattled breathing covered by the distortion. It helped keep from frightening the non-USS members they sometimes worked with.

Right now, it did very little to help his frustration. There was a very, very thin line of common sense that was keeping him from smashing the butt of his gun into the screen to his left.

"Come look at this." I can't fucking see it.

He doesn't say it aloud, but the tense way he shifts his feet says it all. The screen was white on blue - his blue lenses made it impossible.

"If it seems important, we'll send it to Spectre."

"Hey, broki," Hawk calls to Beltway, "¿Adónde vas? You're going the wrong way-"

He grapples onto the big lug's prosthetic arm, trying to guide his compatriot in the same manner a ranch hand would pull a bull by his septum.

"C'mon, how many times have you been here and you still don't know the right way to Ma's house?"