In the ruins of a watchtower on a lonely hill, far from any roads or villages, a pile of rubbish lay. The tower's top had crumbled long ago, leaving the remaining stone as a diagonal that jutted up from the landscape like a broken and rotten fang. The sky above was the grey of old steel, and water fell from the heavy sky-borne cotton of the sodden clouds.
Through the many holes and nooks of the tower, water dripped, miniature streams that collected on the bottom floor, next to the pile of detritus. If one were present in that tower, and looked at the litter long enough, one might have just been able to make out the shape of a man, tall and broad-shouldered, and behind him the spread of old paper and rags may have, just maybe, formed two curled wings.
Water dripped on a rusted bowl at the man-shape's head, the noise echoing and mingling with glockenspiel plinking of other drops, and somehow the form shifted. Stirring, Yuluman woke from his sleep and stood, the rubbish and detritus taking form of an angel. Battered and rusted tin formed a breastplate, an old gnarled stick with its end studded in sharp scrap metal and nails made his mace, and in his left hand was a leather and wooden shield, split down the middle by a sword blow.
His rest finished, the Angel of Lost and Forgotten Things looked around at the innards of the abandoned tower, the walls glistening with water as if he were in the guts of an immense stone beast. The only indications of any recent habitation were a scattering of rat droppings on the floor, damp from the water, and Yuluman decided that all was well.
He stepped outside and spread his wings, the patchwork and old paper already growing sodden in the drizzle. With a downbeat that shed veils of water, he took to the air, pushing himself high up over the ground as he powered towards his destination, a cave several miles away. Within that cave was an old ring, one that had once belonged to a sorcerer, and held within the ring itself was a spirit, an ancient one of great and terrible power, that had helped the spellcaster in achieving immense potency. It had been lost when the sorcerer had been killed by a vengeful warrior, and the man had cast the ring into a stream so that its power could not be abused again; that stream had flowed into a pool in a cave, where the ring had been lost forever. Yuluman had no interest in taking the ring for himself, and instead warded the cave with spells that made it had to notice and instantly forgettable, dissuading the curious from exploring it.
After a short flight through the breezy and wet air, Yuluman landed in the gully that housed the cave. He had recast the wards only a few hours ago, which was why he had deigned it necessary to rest in the ruin after his exertions, and had come to make sure that there had been no problems with the fresh spell. If there were none, as was likely, then the ward would last for years to come.
Extending his power, Yuluman checked the wards. Had he a face, he would have frowned, but instead he merely tilted his helmet to one side.
Something had disturbed the spells he had cast on the cave.
