Fikri woke late and struggled to rise. He checked the offering
he had placed the night before. The little altar held a battered statue, worn smooth
in places by the touch of time and many hands. Fikri touched the idol’s featureless
face with the three fingers of his left hand, as his father and grandfather had
every day.
The worn spots on his prayer pillow struggled to expel
the two divots from the hours he’d spent droning ancient adulations. The
offering lay where he had placed it yesterday, before his supplications. His
petitioning hadn’t roused Urtarr from his godly slumber.
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