A lone man walks up the side of the hill. He is armored, armed and leads a horse laden down with supplies. Rope, tools, and leather bags strapped down tightly. The sun is about to set and he is racing to beat the shadows crawling up the rocks. Ahead, stark against the stormy sky, stands the ruined tower he saw four hours ago. In this wasteland between spaces, he could use the shelter no matter how ruined it may seem.

The walls are still standing at least, but it looks like some of the roof has collapsed. From the gaping doorway broken in long ago by a mighty hand, he can see the spiraling stairs hugging the wall and climbing up. No signs of life stir in the gloom, but he leave the horse outside, and draws his sword, pulls his shield from his back and dons his helm before stepping over the debris of the door.

There are only the scattered rocks from the stairs above and some weak light filtering in from the hole in the roof. Spiderwebs lie across the rocks and he drops his guard, slumps, the stiffness of his anxiety loosening in his back when a tiny metal point presses up against his side, in the gap between the links of his sleeve and vest.

A thin voices hisses in his ear, "Friend or foe?"

The fact that he can understand the voice means it is at least human, and he nods, "Friend to any who speak my tongue."

The pressure under his arm lessens and he turns around bringing his guard up again, but the man behind him hanging upside down from the gap in the wall, drop down to the ground, flipping in midair. He is the opposite of the warrior - in black, tight fitting leather that allows for flexibility of movement and stealth. The rogue slides his knives back into their sheaths and buckles them in to prevent any reflection or sound and smirks back.

"Not too many people make it out this way, unless they're after the same thing I am."

The warrior hesitates, his thoughts are still a mess, there are things he knows but is uncertain how or why he knows them. "I'm not sure, something about a name," and then it comes to him, "Goldan..."

"So you are after the Lich, as well." The rogue nods, walking outside carelessly, turning his back to the warrior, "Good. We'll need the help. Best not to leave your animal out - he'll get eaten."

Unable to strike at a defenseless man, the warrior lowers his weapon again. "We?"

"You're not the first nor the second," he laughs, leading the horse back into the tower. A slight chill fills the room and one corner shimmers as if in a haze, and then two people appear where he saw no one before - a woman wrapped in a gray cloak wielding a staff and another warrior in armor and arms, decked in the artifacts of some god.

"We could use your help," the woman says. Something about her presence is disjointed, as if she is here, and not, a body warped by its proximity to magics and the priest puts his hand on her shoulder and mutters a prayer and she seems to center again. "But if you'd rather go on your own, at least share in a meal with us."

The warrior remembers more clearly now, the line of fighters that had come before him to this place and been beaten back or not returned at all. The tomb lying open because the terrible being scuttling within are enough to prevent any incursions, and the Lich sends its unholy creations out against a kingdom that is too weak to do anything but bring down the horrors and pray it will be the last.

It is up to him, and perhaps these three, to do something about it. "A meal sounds fine," he says and removes his helm. The priest smiles and the wizard casts a spell, summoning a fire to light the gloom and give it some color. Outside, night falls and the rogue puts up small bits of cloth to hide the light, to keep them from being spotted by the predators roaming the hills while the warrior digs out some of the dried meat in his bags to add to the meal.

"I haven't seen you before, friend." The priest says, "And I thought I knew most of the renowned warrior in the land - by your arms, I see you have great wealth and skill to wield them."

The warrior pauses for a minute, unable to remember much of his past but he would rather not discuss his own confusion with these strangers, not when all of this feels... right. "I keep to myself," he says instead.

"No," the wizard woman shakes her head, "No, he's not from here, he's a traveler now, going from world to world, changing form as needed, doing what he has spent his whole life doing, he is..."

Something howls in the distance, a sound of a wolf, if it had the lungs of an animal far larger, and blood caught in its throat. The sound pierces the towers and echoes off the wall, lingering for a long moment and there is silence only broken by the snapping wood in the fire.

"What's your name, friend?" The rogue asks, turning the conversation away from the dangerous topic.

The warrior thinks back, and this is something he does know. "Gygax," he says.

--

I wouldn't be who I am without Gary Gygax's work. He died yesterday. Enjoy your retirement, sir. May your sword and spells save the day across the infinite multiverse of dungeons and kingdoms you inspired. The world is a bit less wondrous without you in it.