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The child stumbles up the worn cracked steps. She drops one - then two - small pieces of hardened flax-bread into your offering bowl, ringing it like a gentle bell.
"I'm lost..." she whispers, balling her fists in a semblance of prayer. "...please...please..."
You wish to tell her that you control naught but the soft noonday breeze and the flow of dew upon bladed grass. You wish to tell her that you are a god of nothing.
But your voice vanishes between the tall, rustling trees. It has been a very long time since you last heard a prayer.
>[SUNWARD] - Help her look sunward. [-1 FAITH]
>[SEAWARD] - Help her look seaward. [-1 FAITH]
