It's a fantasy role-playing game.

DM: You are Vax Vax'ildan, a half-elf rogue . You are the member of the famous group of adventurers. Previously, A passing guard tells them the Bastions are preparing for a fight against Vecna. you'ildan leads the way to the Duskmeadow district, to the Raven's Crest temple.
DM: Vax'ildan. As the panic and pain subsides, much easier now than it was your previous ventures, into this communion, the darkness surrounds you, familiar, but you are intent, and you are driven. The very force of your conversation is pushed out from your personality into this ether, this surrounding, infinite void, and a familiar voice comes. "You burn with intent, my feathered boy."
Player: We need to talk.
DM: "Then talk we shall. Speak your mind." You still see nothing around you, it's just the voice from the darkness.
Player: We were too late to stop him. Vecna.
DM: "I sensed it, yes."
Player: This dead man who wanted to be a god is now a fucking god. We have been speaking to your brothers and sisters, your found family, and they are arming us with what we need to fight your foe. You know who he is. He is upon us and I have come to you for aid. And as I have learned, he is somewhat akin to you. He was one of us and has ascended, like you.
DM: "He is no kin to me. He is a trier. He is a copycat. He ascends for selfish reasons, whereas I was merely following my destiny. He will be destroyed. You have the tools. You have the means. The weave is tangled before us. The threads grow knotted, hard to follow. But yours still glows so bright into that terrible knot."
Player: This thing. This man is your enemy, yes?
DM: "As he is the enemy of all things."
Player: Agreed. I have come here seeking power.
DM: "You have my blessing already."
Player: What of these trammels? These fragments of divinity. Have you that in you?
DM: "I do not know much of these trammels but that they were used. But I fear that is beyond my knowledge. The Knowing Mistress would be the one to speak to."
Player: We have.
DM: "Then what do you need of me?"
Player: We need to power trammels. The Dawnfather, the Knowing Mistress have contributed to our cause, to your cause, these seeds of power. I had hoped you could offer the same.
DM: At this point, you feel a finger trace across your chin from behind. You feel an arm, the weight resting on your shoulder, and it pulls and turns you around, and as you spin, you come face to face with the porcelain mask you are so familiar with. As the hand still holds the edge of your cheek and your shoulder, "Am I to believe that this is not some ploy to diminish my power and leave me vulnerable to cast me from my seat?"
Player: I thought you knew me inside and out.
DM: "I know you, but do you know them? Do you think I've been welcome since I entered this pantheon? My existence is perpetually a threat to the creators. If anything, part of this burden that we all face lies on my shoulders, as well. Why would they not think to strike at two birds with one stone?" At which point, you watch the feathers of her dress furl out a bit, like a bird that's hit a chill.
Player: Well, it depends on you, then, and how much you want this wretch taken down.
DM: Make a persuasion check.
Player: 18.
DM: There's a long, silent stare. "I put my faith in you, my fate-touched. Do not forget that. And all I ask is you put all your faith in me."
Player: You have it.
DM: "Then I shall watch your thread. Now wake up." In that instant, everything goes black once more, and you feel the pain, the heat in your lungs, but then it subsides quickly, and you stay there beneath the familiar, thick surface of the blood. No need for air.
