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[Glass]

Let's add the exhaustion die, please.

And I guessed that it'd steal our identity.

[omada]

exhaustion

he still don't know what the fuck is going on, let him wait a little before succumbing to... madness

[Fniff]

   The dice in Don't Rest Your Head are simple. Roll seperate pools of dice for Discipline, Exhaustion, Madness, and Pain. When a die rolls 1, 2, or 3, it's a success. If you meet or beat the amount of successes Pain has, you win the match.
   However, whichever pool has the highest result colors the roll. Success or failure, this will change the outcome of the roll.
   Let's spin the wheel.

Scene I
   Pain: 6, 5, 2, 3. Two successes.
   Discipline: 6, 4, 3. One success.
   Exhaustion: 1. One success.
   SUCCESS...
   THE COLOR OF PAIN!
   Our intrepid hero rushes off into the night, demanding an explanation, or at least an apology. The mannequin takes shortcuts into rubbish-strewn alleyways, leaps over obstacles and crawls into tight spaces. For a moment, our guy wonders if he'll ever catch up. In fact, the way his heart's beating, he wonders if his chest is gonna burst.
   Finally, the mannequin hits a deadend. Our guy approaches, picks up a stick off the ground, wonders if that sends the wrong message, so he drops it. The mannequin stares him down, an achievement for a being lacking eyes.
   This is a weird moment for our guy. His sleep-deprived brain finally clunks into place like a faulty automatic. He just ran half a mile chasing down a department store dummy that stole his... He can't quite articulate it. He thinks it over.
   So the mannequin takes its chance and rushes him They struggle a little bit, eventually our guy comes out on top. Not difficult when your opponent weighs about as much as a pug. He yells in the mannequin's face,
   “What's going on? What'd you, what'd you take? What the hell's wrong with you?”
   The mannequin stares at him. Then its face shifts, like melting plastic, into a reflection of our hero's mug.
   “I cannot answer the first and last question, brother. But I'm afraid the Breakers of Heaven's Doors must borrow your soul.”
   Our protagonist's stomach sinks. He shouldn't have hoped this situation would resolve itself in a simple fashion.
   A coin of despair has been paid into the bowl. All coins will disappear by the Sabbath next.
   Besides our next course of action, I would like to know: how does our dude react to having his soul stolen?

[Glass]

He doesn't let it happen.

[Harry Baldman]

Reason with it. If they must borrow it, does that mean it will be returned? How will it be returned? We're not authorized to lend something that belongs to God. You can't just steal somebody's soul. It has to be freely given or it's useless, don't you know?

[omada]

"What,breakers of heavens door? Demons?"

*subtle panic by the chance of him being a chess piece in the holy war, but calm down*
 
"[Baldman's action]"


((I am divided between reading a e-book and knowing what these coins mean, or waiting to discover the worst way possible while playing))
 

[Pavellius]

And I guessed that it'd steal our identity.

Frankly, I thought it had taken our rug.

[Fniff]

The symbolic representation of my mental and spiritual identity really tied the room together, man

[Pavellius]

The symbolic representation of my mental and spiritual identity really tied the room together, man

[Fniff]

((I am divided between reading a e-book and knowing what these coins mean, or waiting to discover the worst way possible while playing))

((I am divided between reading a e-book and knowing what these coins mean, or waiting to discover the worst way possible while playing))

Heh.

I'd say our guy does get a little panicked at the idea of being in a cosmic chessbboard, but... maybe a little excited, too. There's no part-time frycook, amateur programmers in chess. If you're on the board, you've got a purpose.

So he tries reasoning with the mannequin. Our guy definitely didn't lend his soul, no-one has the authority to do that. And if you're borrowing without their permission, that's stealing. Even the devil doesn't stoop that low. It has to be given of one's own free wil.

“Oh,” says the mannequin with our man's voice. “So, will you give me your soul?”

“No,” says our guy. “I'm gonna need it back.”

“But then I won't get into heaven,” says the mannequin. “This is my chance, so the Daemon spoke.”

Our guy groans. “Listen, creepy mannequin, I'm sorry. I can't give you my soul and I won't let you steal it either.”

“Fair enough,” it reaches into its chest. Something glows inside. “I'm sorry, this is going to hurt.”

It rips out a glowing heart and shoves it into his chest.
It was right. It feels like a spider is knitting a web inside him, tying up all his organs and pulling them together. Images rush through his head, memories. Except everyone's a mannequin, with a mathematical cross carved where their face should be. When the pain ends, our guy takes out his ID card and sees a picture of a mannequin with the name “SISTER JOHN”.

Our guy stares. That's not his name. Probably.

The mannequin falls apart into a heap of plastic body parts. Looks like his soul was the only thing keeping it together. How'd it get around without one?

So, our guy is in a dark alleyway he doesn't recognize. A siren whoops on the street. Our guy walks over and looks out, trusting a cop will be able to sort all this out. He stops when he sees the cop car cruising up the street is fifty years out of date and has a giant key stuck in its top, slowly spinning. The windows are tinted, and he can't see who's inside it.

In front, a young man stumbles down the road. He's a black kid with no shirt and wild eyes. Someone's wrapped his head in barbed wire, stapeled nails into his hands, and lashed his back with an electrical cord. Our guy gasps at the sight: he's never seen someone like that outside of news reports.

The cop car drives after him so slowly, like a cat stalking a mouse. The headlights light him up. The young man looks behind him, tries stumbling faster, but only knocks himself to the floor.

He's in trouble.

What do you do?

[Glass]

I feel like "running like hell" would be considered an accurate description of what we're doing right now, if something of an understatement.