A rocky, sand strewn expanse was all that could be seen for miles on end. Featureless and brown, the desert's maddening uniformity was broken only by a single dusty old road which stretched off into the heat-hazed horizon, a handful of powerlines teetering dangerously on the verge of falling over, and one very rundown looking diner. So rundown, in fact, as to be completely abandoned - at least to the mortal eye. But masked behind the empty parking lot, cracked asphalt, and ruined facadé lay a world unseen. A nexus of sorts for beings of myth and legend, one that a certain being in particular had meandered his way to...

Agthalan, King of the Dark Below. Lord of Discordia and hijacker extraordinaire!

As for why he had come... to get away from it all? Perhaps.

But most likely to get the owner of the RV he'd... [i]acquired[/i] off of his tail (though the guy had it coming the moment he'd left his doors unlocked, that was just common sense). Who knew that Interuniversal Reclamation Service would have been not only an omnipresent fixture of every reality in some way, but really damn good at their jobs as well? Then again they [i]were[/i] staffed by eldritch gods beyond mortal comprehension, ones whose track records were rated a consistent five stars at that, so he supposed they would have to be, the bastards. At least this universe's branch managers were too hyperfixated on taxing the inhabitants of one specific country of all their hard earned revenue to pay much mind to him, thank the void for small mercies.

Regardless of the reasons why however, it was here that Agthalan had come, sipping on souls as black as the night sky while his husk of a form sparwled disconcertingly across the booth in which he was sitting. No one knew he was here besides the other patrons (those who didn't look half-dead anyway), but that would change the moment he signalled his... well not friends exactly, more so passing acquaintances. It also meant that the IRS would be on his ass as well, so once the signal was given they'd have to move relatively fast. Thankfully speed and time both are relatives where gods are concerned. Where mortals might see a lengthy and drawn out reconnection of long lost friends, most gods would see a rather hasty rush out the nearest exit.

Smiling - a crackling, fetid thing - the King raised his hand. One of them anyway. Flicking a finger towards the window, he sent a bolt of scarlet arcing through it and out into the deep blue beyond where it burst to create a mark of sorts. A clawing sigil that those who had eyes to see would likely notice.

With that taken care of, however, he sat back and continued to wait. Or perhaps he did not. Who was he of all people to say that anything was certain?