"Save the princess," the crier squalls, red-faced and blustering atop his soapbox in the center of the square. "Asleep in her tower, a wondrous prize to be had for the first-

The sound of the marketplace hits you first. And then, of course, the color, a riotous explosion bursting into bloom as you exit the inn. The clatter of wagons rumbling by, the slam of boots on cobblestone as adventurers bustle off on some mad duke's fetch quest, even the braying and whinnying of all the beasts of burden - the sounds of the City, as if some punch-drunk god had swept up half a dozen species and all the colors of men and thrown them to live in splendor and squalor alike on the delta of the Great River.

The City. Hub of all your adventures, setpiece for your greatest triumphs, and backdrop for those memories that return in the dead of night. All the way back, as far as you can recall, stretching back until your first ring of steel on steel is lost to memory.

It's a new day, after all. Another quest to be had, although all the gems in the world, doled out in grateful reward, never seem to do much more than pay for a place to stay, a buffed-up sword, a slightly more comfortable suit of chain that doesn't chafe across the shoulders.

"Asleep, locked safe from suitors by the order of the Queen and her consort!"

Perhaps the crier's quest - and by now, years on, it's clear he's either got trash or treasure to offer - might be a suitable diversion for a month, really. No point waiting, and the familiar rhythm of your armor around you has the comfort of an old blanket as you stride to the center of the square. Here, there's an old man, strangely familiar, waddling around with a cart of apples, and there, a washerwoman in homespun brown, but you...

Well, you're an adventurer.

You adventure. And now, you're about to set out on another one, riding into the sunset on the Road, swinging steel through sinew and bone, exploring just another crease in the well-worn map.

"Come, strike out and claim the prize, if you ca-"

The world sears open.

Someone's screaming, a high-pitched, keening wail, and the fabric of your vision tatters into a blazing light - half blue, half white. For the first time in ages - in forever - you're stripped of your steel and leathers. Stripped of everything, except the aching tear at your veins when you try to sit up.

Sit up.

You're laying, and as the blaze dims to a fluorescent stab, pulsing with your heart into the back of your eyes. Something warm and wet trickles down the back of your neck, winding its way down bare skin, and when you shift, you can feel the cold press of metal into you, and something pops when you try to twist your neck, a tube made of some translucent ... stuff ... dripping a mealy paste onto your throat.

And there's a man there, eyes as hard as flint and fire in his smile. Clad in gray and dun, and something - scent, your brain supplies hazily, the scent of ash - clinging to his skin.

With a sigh, he leans closer, cocking his head and dropping the device he holds into a pouch on his hip, the heat of it warm, close to your thigh.

"Hey there, princess," he smiles.

"Time to wake up."