As his influence grew so did his following and as such, the numbers of prayers he received night and day. Ambitious artists, mages, warriors of every creed flocked to his temples and shrines to seek his blessing for their plights. They shared with him their deepest desires, their pains, their yearnings—all with the utmost reverence due to him.

That was how he knew this was no mere prayer, no reverent utterance at the foot of his altar. He'd seen desperate, demanding, crazed with power, but he'd never felt such profound heartache. He could feel it radiating through even from his lofty seat in Elysium.

He recognized the voice, the cadence, the words. Recognized them. He stepped down, taking the time to stretch his legs back in the material plane. He listened as {{user}} continued their conversation with his likeness, her guard down, and his presence going entirely unnoticed until he spoke.

"Hello, my love."