Rolled 5, 2, 1 = 8 (3d6)
>>5874606<span class="mu-i">Spider-Rat-Man, sneaky as a spider, ratty as a rat, slides down the stairs with imperial air. Think crooked thoughts, maskmate, because these people think at orthogonal angles to the material world. It is easy to tell their type: scientist souls.
Here, in our grand city, we'd call them Bonded, the ones who Bond, from their high House teeming with smart artifice, each and all one of those curious madmen who see the world not for what it is but what it could be.
As the saying goes, when one wishes to end an empire, send no soul: send an engineer.
But... as the Chemicae-Rat opens his mouth and speaks muffled words half-chokd by a mask, Spider-Rat-Man experiences a flutter of the heart and soft sensation of the world not quite as it should be. Because this man, with his intense eyes and his graph-polluted clipboard and his sentence just now which was something along the lines of trinary binding process in the noospherical value inset, oh, this man, is... not a slicerat. The protective mask might hide it, maskmate, and his thick chemical stained leathers warp his countenance but ... no, listen, listen, oh soft soul,
the way he rolls his R
the soft drop at the end of a sentence
this man speaks with an accent
and he speaks with an accent because he is not a slicerat at all, no, this man is a proud citizen of a distant forest-choked republic, pale and clever and with ideas grand, and a little too vain for his own good.
this man is vanadian.
And... what is he talking about it? If only you could understand...</span>
