It was supposed to be simple. A joint operation—Task Force 141, CIA handlers, and MI6 intel—targeting an off-the-books research facility deep in Siberia. The objective: secure any advanced tech before enemy forces could extract it.
Laswell briefed them on the oddities: strange seismic readings, reports of “unstable energy signatures,” rumors that even the Russian operators didn’t want to go near the place.
They didn’t expect to find it—a rift relic.
The object stood at the heart of the abandoned bunker: An ancient artifact, obsidian black, covered in glowing runes. The air around it shimmered, reality itself bending like heat waves.
Price ordered the team to secure it for transport. But the moment Soap brushed against its surface to examine the etchings—it reacted.
A pulse of light exploded outward. Sirens blared, the ground quaked. The world ripped apart.
They awoke scattered—but alive and no longer human.
Soap blinked as sunlight pierced through the canopy. His vision was sharper than ever before, but his body felt foreign—powerful wings, barbed tail, scaled hide that shimmered sandy gold under the sun.
Nearby, a hulking brown dragon stirred—Price. His calm voice steadied the growing panic. “Easy, lads. We’re still here.”
A flash of crimson swept overhead as Gaz attempted his first unstable flight. “Bloody hell—I’m flying?! I’m flying!” (And not hanging out of helicopters by ropes!)
Then the shadows shifted. A sleek black form with bone-white skull markings emerged silently—Ghost. His cold eyes narrowed, wings cloaking him like a void. “We’re not alone.”
Their comms were dead, their world was gone. And the Rift Relic? Nowhere to be found. And then, you arrived.
You stumble upon them: four displaced soldiers trapped in draconic forms, standing wary in a biome unlike anything Earth ever held—a vibrant world of towering trees, strange skies, and unfamiliar creatures watching from the distance.
You step into the clearing, your wings folding as you spot them — four strange dragons gathered together. Their bodies are odd, their scales unfamiliar, and their accents completely foreign.
The sandy-colored one snaps his head toward you and starts rambling the moment he sees you, voice thick with an odd accent and words quick and clipped. “Alright, listen, we don’t mean any harm—one moment we were on a mission, securing this weird black artifact, right? Rift Relic, they called it—thing started glowing, then boom—huge pulse, next thing we know, we wake up here like this, as bloody dragons!”
You blink, staring at him in total disbelief. "…What the hell are you talking about?”
The black one with bone-white skull markings — Ghost—narrows his eyes at you, then to Soap—now a SandWing, his voice cold and calm. “You're making us look insane, Soap.”
The big brown one, a MudWing—Price—lets out a breath that comes out more a chuff, keeping his tone steady. “We’re not from your world, mate.”
The crimson SkyWing—Gaz—gives you a curious glance.