The alliance is reforged, mortal. The planes thus quake, and the gods shudder.

Findal: "Oh, thank you, thank you. I thought I was going to die down here."
Player: "Don't thank me yet. I'm here to finish what they started."

I don't mean to judge a book by its cover, but that man is all cover and no pages.

Like moons make swell and wane the nescient seas, so too the sky-strewn gods ordain the tidal fates of mortal days. And yet - a notion born in lonely hours - come ebb, come flow, come all that is beyond the breadth of our dominion: be a moon unto yourself. Even the waves of fate can break upon the shores of will.

Smashing! Soon, my friend - soon we can share a flagon of something liquid and a tale of derring-do!