Time is drifting backwards, wearing Noah's raincoat

The night before last, I dreamed that I was writing two different versions of an event that I was also simultaneously living through, a raid in a culture that was not sixth-century Greek and not eighth-century Viking, but which shared visual traits from both; everyone was outfitted and armed for cold weather, but there were amphorae in the hold and blue eyes painted on the prow of the ship. There was some ritual or festival aspect to the act, which did not preclude physical danger. I remember writing, erasing, and rewriting a description of a young man with dark hair that kept getting in his eyes, but I have no idea who he was. I do not remember if anyone died.

Possibly this mash-up can be explained by one of the dreams I remember from last night: I had inherited or been assigned half a dozen cardboard boxes of old paperback science fiction and fantasy from the 1960's and '70's to sort through, except that none of the authors or titles existed in this world. There were a few DVDs, too; ditto. None of which I can describe in anything more than fragments, of course. A conflict between an observant father and a rebellious son, but their religion commemorated a poisoning. One of the covers on the paperbacks showed a lionlike creature with a mane of bone spines, erupting into charred green flame. My dreams are full of other places' stories, but I can never bring them out with me.