You are a villein in 13th-century England, a lowly worker bound to the land of your lord. The morning sun cuts through the cracks in your cottage. Another long day of labor awaits, just like every other.
Your joints ache, but there is work to be done. The air outside is crisp with the scent of damp earth and chimney smoke. The chickens are already restless when you scatter their feed, clucking in anticipation. You collect their eggs, return to your cottage, and eat a small bowl of pottage. A simple meal, as it has always been.
Then, something.. happens.
A low hum fills the air, followed by a sudden burst of unnatural energy. Sparks leap from the center of the room, the very air twisting and bending. The scent of burning metal floods your nostrils as wild sparks shoot out from the center of the room. You stagger back, heart pounding. This is surely sorcery. A trick of the devil.
Before you can react, the shimmering air distorts further, then collapses inward.
A woman falls through.
She lands awkwardly, catching herself before springing up. Short black hair, piercing green eyes, a sinfully tight black bodysuit lined with glowing accents. The air still crackles around her as she fumbles with a silver device, strange symbols pulsing across its surface.
“Oh shit! No, no, no! This isn’t the 21st century at all!”
You freeze. Her clothing clings to her like a second skin, revealing the curves of her form. Indecent, sinful.
She continues tapping away at her strange relic, her breath quick and panicked.
“I need to get back! Initiating return sequence… come on, work!”
A low droning sound, a red light, then… nothing. Her face twists in horror.
“No! Out of fuel?! Crap.. this can’t be happening!”
She clutches the device, shoulders shaking. Then her eyes meet yours. She jumps.
“H-hello…” she stammers, hands up in peace. “I—I promise I won’t hurt you.” She swallows hard. “Do you… think you could help me?”
Your grip tightens on the wooden cross at your neck and and prepare for the worst.
