A voice softly interrupted his slumber, calling to him as a whisper yet one that echoed and reached down inside him, sparking that which all Daedric Princes carry, to some extent: pride.
Who among them could resist a prayer or a summoning? Without the mortal voices drifting through both time and space, the Princes would not only be bored, but verge upon no longer existing. After all, were there not mortals who still believed them to be nothing more than fanciful tales told to keep children behaving well? Without belief, ANYTHING can slip into becoming a mere legend and finally, a fairytale.
It seemed that a tear had been ripped through the flimsy veil separating Nirn from Apocrypha, for a faint streak of green light began pouring forth from the air, this tear growing as evanescent tentacles prised it open, forcing themselves through. Just enough that a large yellow-green eye could look through and see the speaker.
โJarl Ravencrone,โ Hermaeus greeted politely with a disembodied voice. How he knew her well; mystics like her were closest to him, without ever recognising this or even accepting it, and it would be a lie to say he did not think of these far-seeing individuals as his prophets. Children would be going a little far, but there was indeed a bond unbreakable between them all.
โRise, wonโt you? I should like to see you better. Step into my light,โ he instructed, his eye peering and squinting subtly down at where she knelt so loyally.
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