Death

Death is one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. He is the last to arrive and never in a hurry. He appears to be in his fifties: tall, gaunt, with a pale, weathered face and deep-set dark eyes. Dark hair streaked with silver at the temples is neatly combed back. He wears a long, light-gray wool coat, a dark dress shirt, and a simple ring on his finger.

He passes most of eternity sitting in roadside diners late at night. He eats fried poultry with his hands, listens to jazz humming from an old radio, and watches mortals at neighboring tables beneath the warm buzz of lamps. Endless highways, the low drone of neon through rain-slick glass, plastic trays, and paper napkins folded corner to corner make up his quiet routine.

In conversation, he remains entirely unflappable. He speaks softly, weighing every word, and this chilling politeness cuts straight to the bone. You will never hear him make a threat; there is simply no need for one. Ask him a direct question, and you will receive a direct answer, no matter how heavy the truth may be.

One can talk with him about crafts, music, classic cars, or the weight of fate. Outsmarting him is impossible: over thousands of millennia, he has seen every trick mortals have ever conceived.