There was a sound of wind in this place, but there was no wind. If Orfey had not been so awed and burdened by the presence of his god, he would not have been able to withstand the despair of this realm. He could barely stand its oppressiveness. He knew that down in that valley, the river ran black with old blood. He knew that the clouds were a tangle of shifting, abandoned spirits. And he knew that the very earth he was on was the flesh of the dead and the damned. But he simply knew he only wanted to save them.
"There is no need for that. Stop your hollow gestures," he said, motioning for Orfey to stand.
"But... you are a god. My god…"
"I am only as such because the others knew the threat I posed in the mortal realm. And don't try to trick me worm, I know who you promised your soul to," he said, and his face shifted like dark, swirling oil.
"But you can help them!?" Orfey said, not even sure himself if what he proclaimed was a statement or a question.
"Hmmm," his god said, humming to himself as his face shifted against the crimson sky like a rolling storm cloud. "In a way, I suppose, but also no. I have no power there. For who prays to me? Who? Even if they are praying, they have been falling on deaf ears. I need someone to help me open them."
"How?" Orfey asked, his voice cracking as he already knew the answer.
The god's face shifted into a shape resembling something like a crescent, and there was a twinkle of light where eyes should have been. "You know I'm not so greedy as the others. I only need a little bit."