A different sort of carriage rolled up in front of the tavern through the driving snow, just as regal and dignified as the others but at the same time undeniably ostentatious. As it was driven into the light of the tavern front window it nearly perfectly reflected back the the light that fell on it, and if you could see through the glare you would see that most of the vehicle had been plated with polished gold. The wheels were inset with precious gems, the body carved with intricate patterns depicting great space battles, and if the door were to open you'd see the interior had been completely redone to include not only a poker table but a fully stocked bar in its own right. Even the grim driver was better dressed than the average ferryman.

If Cosmo Satan was being carted off to Hell he was at least going to be carried in his kind of coach. He'd explained this to the coaches fiercely objecting driver as he'd ripped it apart for the refurbishing.

Opening the door, the alien warlord swept out. He descended the opulent kick out stairs, which automatically folded back up as soon as his weight was taken off of them, and turned back to the driver. He jingled the pair of gold coins he'd prepared in his hand, hesitating, then tossed them up to the driver and made his way through the snow toward the only building in sight. Behind him the coach pulled away to make room for the inevitable one after.

It wasn't what Satan expected, to be honest. He'd heard of fire and brimstone, of horse faced demons with red hot tongs ready to tear him to pieces. No story had ever mentioned a warm looking tavern. He came up on a uniformed human standing standing before the building ([@Antioch]), loomed down at him, and said, "Tell me human, is this Hell? I'm expecting to meet some people here."