Universal Remote [Open to All]

[applesaucemod]

Here's an interesting scene: the dreamers of Manhattan are on a pirate ship. Or perhaps they're standing in a busy ER, wearing scrubs and holding a scalpel they may or may not know how to use. Or perhaps they've found themselves in the middle of a world cup championship game, or an old-fashioned highway robbery, or an interstellar dogfight, or a dramatic, 'unscripted' showdown between arguably attractive people they've never seen before in their lives.

Whatever the situation, rest assured: it probably won't last long.

Maybe the Rift is bored. That might explain why the dream keeps changing, as if someone were idly flicking through the channels and switching up the genre. The poor dreamers are just along for the ride, the only constant amidst a shifting array of scenery, clothing, and overall mood. Perhaps, if things are sufficiently interesting, the dream might settle a little to see how things play out. But given the Rift's definition of 'interesting,' that might not be a good thing for whoever is providing the entertainment.

[OOC: the usual dream party rules apply. All are welcome, regardless of whether they're in the game or not. Dreamers can remember or forget the events of the dream at the players' discretion. Dreamers' clothes may change to reflect whatever scene they're in, but their memories and personalities will remain intact... though the overall mood of the setting might influence their mood, as well. Feel free to throw NPCs into whatever scene you find yourself in, with bonus points added if said characters treat the dreamers as if they're established parts of the 'canon.']

Comments

[singthesong]

"A friend of mine." Watching her, the Balladeer mimics her movements and pats his own horse's neck. Its mane is dark against its tan coat; if there's a word for that sort of horse, he doesn't know it. The smell isn't so alien though, and he smiles in fascination as he works his fingers through a section of mane. "She's from a world more like this. Sort of medieval." Though still, he supposes, quite distant from the experience of knighthood.

Are they knights? They must be. Who else rides around dressed like this? Even the horse, poor thing! His mount seems calmer, merely flicking an ear and tossing its head a little at his touch, but it has to be hot under all this.

"I've never ridden either," he admits. "But this is nice."

[driftseeker]

So, it seems when it comes to the varying points in time the Rift doesn't discriminate. Mako from the future in relation to Manhattan, Greta from the past, and the Balladeer - she can't entirely discern what time period from which he might have been displaced. There's a lot about him she can't seem to read, including his relative ease in acclimatizing with each new environment, though that could simply mean he's been here for a lot longer, long enough to grow accustomed to such changes.

She looks back down at the horse, who snorts and tosses its head in a manner that might indicate discomfort, or impatience, or any number of things she doesn't know how to interpret.

"I don't know what it is we're supposed to be doing," she confesses. "All the other places had an objective, but this place - "

A shrieking roar cuts her off, and a dark, sprawling shadow passes over the both of them, blotting out the sun. She looks up and catches a glimpse of leathery wings, curved claws, the gray shimmer of a scaly hide, and her stomach plummets.

[singthesong]

The Balladeer watches the dragon pass overhead with wide eyes. Beneath him, his horse whickers and shifts uneasily. Luckily, it doesn't bolt; he really doesn't have the skill to control a panicked steed.

After a moment of silence, he speaks.

"I bet that's normal."

[driftseeker]

In contrast, Mako's horse bucks, nearly succeeding in unseating her. She clings to its reins in blind terror, unable or unwilling to confront the reality - or lack thereof - of the thing circling them overhead. She can muster little more than a short intake of breath, her mind a panicked whirl of fragmentary images, the shriek of Otachi's claws sinking into metal, the awful thunderous snap of its wings unfurling, the sickly bright blue of its blood gushing from the place where they cleaved it in two.

Otachi's dead, says Raleigh, but he doesn't sound as certain as he means to, as he hypothetically means to. Otachi's dead, remember? We gutted it like a fish.

The timbre of the echoing roar is deeper, throatier, nothing like the birdlike screeches of a kaiju, but the rational reminder is not enough to hold her heart still or her breath even.

The shadow swoops low and this time she sees it, face-to-face, smoldering eyes and jaws gapped wide and startlingly bright red tongue. With the hiss of igniting gas, its maw gapes open to belch loose a gushing sheet of flame. The trees spring alight.

Mako's mouth goes dry.

Her horse rears abruptly and it is all she can do to cling desperately to its back as it makes a sharp turn to bolt as far away from the inferno as it possibly can.

[singthesong]

Oh. It's coming back.

Stoic though the dark-maned horse may be, it's certainly not proof against a charging dragon. The Balladeer only has time for a half-startled shout as it wheels, nearly throwing him. One hand wrapped in the reins, he ends up clanking hard and clinging to the horse's side as it runs.

It is much bouncier like this!

"What should we do?" is what he means to yell. What comes out is more along the lines of "Whaaaaaauauauagh!"

[driftseeker]

Mako can only hope the horse has some idea of where it's going, because no amount of desperately yanking on the reins has any hope in redirecting it. Panicked as the animal is, it's more likely than not that it has no greater plan than simply getting away. For the moment, that plan, one-note as it might be, suits her.

Oily smoke streams thickly from the predator's open gullet as it dips low and takes to the sky again with an almighty clap of its wings. The Balladeer seems to be keeping pace, though the poor man is practically bouncing against his steed's back.

She opens her mouth to suggest something, anything, but she never gets the words out. Her horse jars to a halt and bucks again, throwing her bodily from its back and sending her arcing to the ground.