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For a few heartbeats afterwards you are frozen, in tense anticipation, the muzzle of the revolver still smoking, and as you watch, the wisps of drifting smoke somehow carry the scent of desert sands, becoming strands of cloud over the embalmed flesh of sky, a mirage of a vermillion palace drifting over the sinuous haze of parched wilderness. You feel each grain of this moment passing like grit through the narrow throat of an hourglass, but then a heartbeat later the last grain of it is gone.
(optional)
>Point to where the mist of the blood-mirage had been, the ghostly vermillion city, and ask Madame Blackwood: Did you see that...? What was it? That city...?!
>Berate Madame Blackwood: You were... utterly useless. I guess you do not have any gifts, you have no Power at all. You are a fraud! Perhaps all of your Theosophy is a deceit...!
>Moan feebly... gaaargh, my arm...
>Say nothing