Clotho spins the thread of life,
Lachesis draws your stake,
Atropos does the final snip,
And that, my dear, is Fate.
He's been coming to the roadhouse twice a month for a long while now.
He doesn't particularly like the place but it's where all the hunters gather and he's got no where else to go. He sits in the farthest seat from the door, half-hidden by the shadows, but visible and scarred if anyone bothered to look.
Hunters are an interesting breed of men. They speak of nightmares and killing, but if you listen closely enough they talk of themselves. Of burdens and dreams and deaths. So he ignores the words and listens to them.
And he learns.