>>9992294(9/?)
Because the sigil of God’s daytime sign had long dropped out of view, Gházil began to set his sights on his obligations, to which all faithful harken as commanded. He had been awake for long enough that his ablutions for nightfall from the daytime before remained intact. Nevertheless, he had to wash his face for his earthly preparation, but that was to come after the heavenly one was fulfilled. Gházil turned away from that slight-indigo vault many-times diminished by Tehran’s smoldering intrigues, righting himself from them again to dress his part… after greeting his two angels to conclude the third prostration of maghreb prayers, it occurred to him that aside from his Creator, he had actually been addressing himself to the detriment of the others, to a point where he had almost forgot that even his flesh and bones existed amidst the skeleton of his words; again, no matter, as the others would eventually fight their way up to their cloistered visitor to make themselves known, and his silence would be broken as it had by the few who had known him before; his prayers thus concluded, Gházil picked up the pitcher of water next to his prayer rug and his made his way to the mirror. He ran his hands down his stout alpinid jaw on reflex to probe the remains of his beard, making sure there were none for the time being. He needed to ape the neophyte for this appearance, as that was an indispensable part of the performance; besides, his face had to be smooth to the touch for color to be properly applied, which ran sleek as high-quality oils. He found his cheeks were fillets of neatly-dressed flounder on display atop his jawbones; after every square inch of them was exfoliated to reveal their freshest flesh, they stood perfectly ready to be marinated with the rest of his visage in a mint-green facepaint.
