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[SOLDIER First]

((..One, of whatever the appropriate die is.))

[Empiricist]

((I don't understand what you're trying say >__<

As is, Stacy will be using all 3 of her Identity Dice and 1 Hangover Die. You can choose to add another Hangover Die and/or up to 6 Impulse Dice.))

[SOLDIER First]

((Oh, right.
One Hangover and one Impulse, then?))

[Empiricist]

((So, keep Hangover at one and use one Impulse die, correct?))

[SOLDIER First]

((..Yes.))

[spümpkin]

Janet doesn't take the time to understand what she just did, so she just runs the fuck away, following the other two.

((Use the current dice I have atm please))

[Empiricist]

((As in, just the three Identity dice? Or three Identity, one Impulse just like last turn?))

[spümpkin]

((As in, just the three Identity dice? Or three Identity, one Impulse just like last turn?))

((Same as last turn.))

[Salsacookies]

Make a run for it. 2 impulse dice

[Twinwolf]

Run for it, two Identity one Impulse.

[Empiricist]

Stacy forcibly yanks Rachel along and fucks the fuck off.

Spoiler: Stacy | 2 vs. 1 | Stress (click to show/hide)

IDN: 1, 1, 6
HNG: 5
IMP: 5
STR: 4, 5, 2, 6

You try to drag Rachel along, but she isn't exactly trailing along, so you sort of just hold her hand while running away like two teens on an awkward first date that for whatever reason involves a giant field of reality-and-analogy obliterating death. You feel distressingly sober. And hungover. But mostly just sober.
[[Your Hangover has been raised by 1.]]

Janet doesn't take the time to understand what she just did, so she just runs the fuck away, following the other two.

Spoiler: Janet | 3 vs. 3 | Identity (click to show/hide)

IDN: 2, 6, 3
HNG:
IMP: 3
STR: 2, 1, 4, 2

Standing at the epicenter of the anomaly, you were undoubtedly in the worst position of the four. As you sprint down the bridge, cracks tear past you and the world behind you, beside you, sometimes even small chunks in front of you begins to vanish, devoured by the aftermath of your punch. Still, you keep calm, and keep running, not much else you can do.
[[You can regain your lost Stability Point if you wish.]]

Make a run for it. 2 impulse dice

Spoiler: Steve | 3 vs. 1 | Stress (click to show/hide)

IDN: 1, 5, 3
HNG: 5
IMP: 2, 6
STR: 6, 3, 5, 5

Adrenaline already coursing through your body, you rush forwards, dashing along the bridge as everything that falls apart. The sharp cracking noises builds up to a roaring cacophony behind you as you begin to pull ahead, widening the gap by inches at a time. It's exhausting work, especially without any proper warm up but better soreness and headache than oblivion.
[[Your Hangover has been raised by 1.]]

Run for it, two Identity one Impulse.

Spoiler: Rachel | 3 vs. 2 | Stress (click to show/hide)

IDN: 1, 3, 3
HNG:
IMP:
STR: 5, 1, 2, 4

You decided for reasons that escape me, to remain at zero Hangover and to refrain from using any Impulse. That's three dice to yourself against four dice for the abyss. Confidence or showboating? That's for your companions to decide. You just sprint forwards alongside Stacy (who is doing a fairly poor job at dragging you) down the bridge.
[[Your Hangover has been raised by 1.]]
The anomaly grows in haphazard leaps, like watching a time lapse of a very drunken crystal precipitating out of a solution. One that is missing most of its frames. The cracks increase in both length and frequency as the anomaly grows in jagged bursts in random directions. The sea begins to drain into the void, dragging Pillbugs and Iceburgs alike into nonexistence. Bridge breaks. The coral is consumed. The shrine subsumed. Eventually, it slows. The intersections grow less and less until they appear no more. The jagged black expanse hangs still, silent save for the rush of blood into it.

As you progress along the final stretch of the bridge or what little remains of it, the droplet size and overall turbulence decrease. Perhaps, where it not for the whole breaking reality mishap, the blood here may have even been static. You cross from the faded canvases of the billboards to the brass of enormous gears, each at least the width of bedroom, most far larger. Arranged in layers, with teeth closer to those from a sawblade meshing together, they slowly rotate, floating upon the sea of blood. Scattered around the seaside where you are right now are jackscrews, rising and falling like excessively tall circular staircases, acting as vantage points of sorts, some with chain-cocooned coffins anchored to their apexes.

Now that you are below the artificial sky, the eye of judgement has fallen silent.

This is the shore, or what passes for it anyway. It is absolutely cluttered with countless stalls and figures. Some appear almost human, most do not. You see those that look human, yet indistinct, like half-remembered strangers or ghost-photos wandering amongst the crowds. You also see the others, strange entities, some nightmarish, most just plain preposterous. Almost drowned-out by the hustle and bustle of the markets, you hear noises in the background, noises that, along with the temperature, humidity and scents, change dramatically with each step, as if the ambiance was as patchwork as the city itself.

There is what appears to be a payphone here, mostly normal, save for the fact that it has far more keys than what could conceivably fit. Keys that display, in place of numbers, peculiar symbols. Symbols that Rachel has in her little notebook.

The more notable stalls nearby include:

Requiem for the Static King
This stall is just a stall-sized music box perpetually playing through unseen forces. Its soundless music reveals its wares to you, which consist mostly of prescription medications you've never heard of such as Delirium in C Minor, some kind of potent analgesic and, Wintersun Concerto, a healing salve. They also sell certain sounds that act as bandages and other pharmaceutical supplies.

Harbor-side Magecraft
A set of flags hang beneath the sign, most of them are national, but there are a few anomalous ones. One of them's just white flag with a picture of a burning American flag on it, another is a sheep-riding cowboy in the middle of a Southern Cross. Hanging upwards from wires anchored to the ground with actual anchors are a variety of snuff boxes made from the cries of newborn babies and the scent of powdered fuel-rods.

Nazim's Blades and Cutting Implements
A stall where everything is made of cutting implements, or could be used as one. The penny bowl? Razor-sharp chakram. That table? Giant cleaver on its side. That post? A massive flanged collection of blades. This extends even to the merchandise as you spy: a set of katanas with each subsequent blade acting as the scabbard for the previous blade like some sort of matryoshka, a chainsaw which has had its teeth replaced with the slots of a cheese grater reducing its practicality as a weapon further, and a grand piano woven together entirely from perpetually taut piano wire for reasons that escape you.

Abercrombie Surgical Tools
You don't really see any surgical tools here. Well, you see what they're selling, but they aren't hygienically sealed. Or scalpel-like. Or man-portable. Set standing upright on various Persian rugs that depict the trenches of the Somme in gruesome detail are cellphone towers, concrete pillars that look like they were torn straight out of a building, and a folding chair that has had the flavor of antidisestablishmentarianism physically bolted onto it with door knobs that, even when far away, you can see with such detail it's as if you were right up said door knobs, examining them through a magnifying glass.

Mystical implements for the Astute Enchanter
The store name is inscribed in calligraphic text upon levitating steel placard with a front but no back. Below it is a miniature inferno of multi-colored smoke and flame, woven into a vibrant stall that glows with vibrant brilliance. The shopkeeper, an enormous stick of celery that terminates with the ravenous jaws of an alligator, reclines at attention, apathetic or perhaps oblivious to the pair who have just awoken before its stall.

You wake up on a cold metal floor with faint tones of jasmine fluttering into your nose, a slight ache in your head and soreness in your legs. Your sleeve proceeds to spontaneously combust, seemingly having only now comprehended its proximity to the capitalist conflagration. Shit. Held in your hand is a double helix of walnut wood that burns with starlight, wrapped around one hundred dollars(?) worth of notes from a country you don't recognize.

There's a note in your other hand, inscribed upon an alarmingly flexible flake of rock. The penmanship is, odd, inconsistent. As if fifty different people took turns writing it at random. The style is more uniform however. Short, curt, efficient.
Beware those who appear human
Search and you shall find your hotel
Well that's not particularly useful. It isn't like people who actually are human can be considered trustworthy usually either. There's more written on the other side.
Act like you belong here
Use magic sparingly
Okay, slightly more useful. Still, probably going to be quite hard acting like everything is normal when it looks like a drug trip. Also, what's this about magic? Do you have magic? Last time you checked, you're reasonably sure you didn't.

Okay think AJ, think. Where were you last night? What happened? Why is your trouser leg on fire? Uh, you're drawing a blank on them. Damn it. Damn it all.
You can't remember much of what you did last night, other than the lingering memory of a song. Not even a whole song, just three or four notes in alarming detail. Focusing on those, a sphere of flame, like one of the those pictures of fire in micro-gravity, erupts forth in your hand. Congratulations! You've discovered a way to reignite yourself in case you like being on fire so much that you don't want to go back.

You also have one of those wooden helices in your pocket, tucked alongside a crumpled piece of paper. It's a warrant for your arrest, for the charge of Vandalism issued by some sort of Taoist Coalition. It bears one of those yin-yang symbols on it, one that occasionally open like a set of eyelids to reveal a human eye with a pitch black iris staring at you.
((Okay, now responses to exploration are going to be much slower since chances are, I won't have a full description prepared as the world is more open here. Not to mention the random events when exploring.))

[Twinwolf]

((Wait the stress was how many dice were being rolled? Crap. I didn't understand that.

...I don't suppose I could reroll adding a single Hangover die? Or would that not really effect anything?))

[Empiricist]

((I'm willing to let you since it's an honest mistake and it's early on the in the game.

But why would you want me to roll a hangover die though? You already succeeded so the only real effects it could do would be rolling three or less to another success so that Rachel drags Stacy along, or rolling a six so that Hangover dominates, which would still raise your Hangover by one anyway.))

[Adragis]

Lily mumbles something and tries to put out her sleeve. That jacket was £320.

[Twinwolf]

((Oh, then nevermind. There's no real point in re-rolling since I already succeeded, right?))