text: &#x200B; In a bar, there was a lone patron sitting at a table with a small black book with symbols written with thin black ink and a half full glass of whisky. His beard was sticking out from the hood, black with long grey strands here and there. The bartender was cleaning glasses with a rag as the patron was writing in his black book. A small group of people in robes came into the bar, pushing past the doors. The oldest looking one looked around the bar, seemingly looking for someone, "Hey barkeep, you seen him?" he asked as two other people came to his sides. The barkeep looked up at him and smirked, "I haven't. Hasn't been here in a few days," He lied. The oldest, glared and narrowed his eyes, "You're lying." The lone patron stood up, finishing his drink in a gulp, "Leave that man alone," his voice was raspy and labored as he grabbed his things. The group turned to face him. The oldest scoffed and laughed until the patron looked up at him. The patron had a missing left eye and a long scar going across his face to the left side of his face. His skin was old and wrinkled, showing his age. In his left hand, he had a walking stick that went to his shoulder. The oldest looked at his face and smiled, confident. "Who the hell are you old man?" He asked as he tried to grab the walking stick. The patron had a very firm grip on it. "Just someone that doesn't like bullies," he tapped the floor with the stick. A large bolt of lightning came down and struck him. He screamed in agony as the others froze in place. The oldest one let go of the stick and his hand was charred and burnt. "What the hell is this?" He was scared and in shock. The old man smirked and tapped the floor again, making another bolt of lightning come down and strike the others. They screamed in pain and the oldest ran out of the bar scared. The other two followed soon after. The bartender was shocked, his mouth agape at this old man, "What the hell are you?" The old man sighed a little as he readjusted his stance, "You can call me Wotan. I am just a scholar," he smirked a little. The bartender was silent as Wotan walked out, his gait was labored. The market outside the bar was bustling with stands selling everything from clothes to food to toys. The air was filled with the smell of smoked meats and cooked vegetables. Wotan started to weave through the crowd to an alleyway, going into a door on the left-hand side. The room was messy with books, newspapers, and feathers of his raven, Artur. He removed his robes and cowl, showing a toned body. His torso was covered in multiple scars that crisscrossed. Artur was perched on his perch, he cawed as Wotan showed his face. He was wrinkled and old, showing his age of maybe seventy. "Artur, old friend. My eyes and ears. What did you see?" His eyes changed to a pale orange. Artur was flying around the main city, bustling and loud. On one roof was a large figure. It was about seven feet tall with dark clothing, his eyes were glowing softly. He cawed and perched on a chimney a few houses down from where the figure stood. "Ah, Mael. It's been so long," Wotan smiled a little as the figure looked at Artur, his eyes were like red spotlights. "Artur, is that you?" His voice was deeper, "Old friend Wotan, it's been a while," he pet Artur on the back of his head.