He extends his hand and I'd be lying if I said I only hesitated a bit to shake it. When I finally did, my hand was enveloped by his, except it wasn't warm and inviting, instead cold and rough. It sent a shiver down my spine. "Name's Demetri," he smirked, his almost black eyes glistened, "But you can call me Death."

Everything remembered must be forgotten. The gods are glorious, and then they are not -- history is an ongoing clock. It trudges on.