[Suzerain of Sheol]

A haven between worlds... haunt to heroes, gods, demons, the wanderers of realms. In his youth, so long ago, he had read the postulations of scholars, written from the temerity of their secluded libraries, so far from the cruel exigencies of life, and scoffed. So many things had happened since... had he truly never given thought to the possibility? All that wisdom gained, and so sincerely gone to waste.

Tyrak Bathmulla did not study his surroundings long. Whatever he was like to find here, it would not emerge as he stood looming in the doorway. He strode across the floor of the tavern with heavy steps, his ancient armor banging and groaning, his broken sword battering his back in its overlong scabbard. Ignoring the stares was easy – it had been a long time since he could pass among a room unnoticed. The terror at being unable to remember was like a fading nightmare; centuries had made him who he was, the prayers of dying men shaping him into something that collected hope and despair in its eyes of fractal ice and doled out unbroken promises in the form of saving fire in return. The same fire that swept among his hair as it trailed nearly to the ground, unbound, behind his towering frame. Whoever he had been before... that man had welcomed the change – that he recalled. If this was the face of godhood, he had grown comfortable in its guise.

He chose a table with only a single other patron, not looking to be bombarded with company. Tyrak did not even spare the man – man? Woman? Soulless creature from some far-flung hell? – the majority of a glance as he sank into the chair opposite. Curiosity would come in time.