Inspect the stranger.

You swear you've seen him before.

The man has crimson flesh, with long spindly horns that curl upwards and back above his head, and he already stands at an alarming height. He must have trouble using doorways. His chest is wide, and bound by metal chains that hook beneath his pecs to a thick iron skull. Around that is a heavy black leather coat. A spaded tail hands down from beneath it, swinging by dark trousers and studded boots. For some reason, he wears another chain just above his belt, though it doesn't seem to be holding anything up. It likely serves the same person as anything else with his attire--swag.

Almost concealing his face is billowing smoke slowly clouding the ceiling overhead. It comes from something thick between his teeth. It looks similar to a cigar, but not one you've seen.

He's a devil, but a hulking, powerful one, and he isn't alone. A few imps perch nearby--weaker, winged creatures from the same plane devils hail from. Either he's successfully intimidated everybody around, or you're the only one who doesn't know his name, because any remaining patrons clear out until all you can see is a frightened older woman behind the main counter.

Though her hair is still brown, there are streaks of grey, especially down the tips of her feline ears. It unfortunately isn't bravery keeping her there, but terror. She can't move.

When the devil finally speaks, even the voice is similar, though that familiarity fades as he continues. It's more gravelly than you expected, like his deep tones are grinding up stones in his throat. "I won't ask again," he says, continuing a conversation you missed. "Is he here, or is he not?"

"I--... Wh-Wh... I d-don't--" stutters the woman.

"Enough!" the devil shouts. He snaps his fingers, and when he does, one of the imps leap to clutch his forearm.

It takes flight after that, and lunges straight towards the poor catfolk behind the counter.

You take a quick breath. Just before you can Bunny Hop, you watch as the imp is obliterated mid-flight. One of the wings continues on to hit the wall, while the rest of its body is severed in two. Standing nearby is a man you actually do recognize. It's the elderly gentleman you know only by the name G. In his hands is a hefty greataxe, now covered in a devil's blood.

He looks up towards the smoke-shrouded glare of the towering, crimson man, and grumbles out, "You've been told this before. You aren't welcome here, servant of the Demon King."

"I am no servant!" He swings his fist down into the table beside him, splitting it down the middle. "We're business partners. And this visit has nothing to do with him. It's personal. People I trust have informed me that Kyle Warren is staying here. Are you saying those people are liars? Maybe I should just burn this place to the ground. That'll bring him out, or kill him in the process."

"I just keep making enemies," you say from the bottom of the steps. You stand with your sword in-hand, dressed in no more than your trousers. Even your feet are bare. As you stand there shirtless, the older catfolk suddenly snaps out of her paralysis. She looks you over thoroughly for a moment before scurrying into the back room.