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.