An old, wild-west style sign swings on it's hinges, the blustery wind sending it swaying. As it swings back into the light of a nearby lamp post, the flickering gas light illuminates the wooden sign, just for a moment. Compita de Tempus, reads the sign, in italic, hand-painted letters.
A tall, well-built man garbed in formal opera dress, his jacket laden with medals of all kinds, all of which he is immensely proud of, slides an enormous, shining iron key into the lock, and there is a slight creak as he pushes the door open. He lights the lamps and removes the dust-sheets from the furniture, revealing clusters of small, round, polished-wood tables, surrounded by chairs of every shape and size one could imagine.
He sighed contentedly, and leaned over the bar to push down a seemingly-ordinary lever. A whirring started somewhere in the ancient basement, and the lights flickered for just a moment. Then all was as before.
But not quite, mused the man, whose face was hidden behind a voluminous cavalry moustache and beard. Now, the Crossroads of Time inn was as good as its name; anyone, from anywhere, could access this little haven, be it to take refuge, to start an adventure or conclude one, or maybe just to get a drink. This was what he had been missing, all these years. He was home.
The ageing man glanced up, startled from his reverie by the sound of the bell on the door ringing stiffly from disuse, as his first customer in 200 years entered the establishment.
"Hallo there! Welcome to the Crossroads! How may I be of service to you- the name's Major-General Harrison Burns, but it's just Harry to most. Unless they upset me, because then it's 'please, no, please, please, please, pl-urk." He chuckled, a wheezing sound like the wind stirring dry, autumn leaves, and motioned that the stranger take any seat.
