>[RECLAIM]. A prayer is prayer. For the dead faithful, lest others take them. [-6 FAITH]The grass surrounding your shrine is softest in autumn, after it is blanketed by a thin layer of rust-red leaves.
You find the trader-family laying together beneath a swaying gold-oak. They watch the bending of the branches and the shifting of the serene clouds above, their fine cloaks spread into makeshift blankets, their pale flesh unmarked by hot embers. They anticipate your arrival, having waited for a period they can no longer recall.
<...you called upon me...>
The woman does not meet your gaze. "...a desperate prayer, borrowed from a fellow trader."
<...it makes no difference. Come.>
You take the family from the leaf-strewn fields to the beating center of your shrine. You walk them through a procession of limestone arches shorn by wind and slick with fresh rain. You converse with them, learning of the small, trivial details that often pass the prayer steps and offering bowls: words that you would only ever hear from the dead.
>[TRADE] Of trade, and their work.>[LAND] Of the land, and its humble inhabitants.>[LORD] Of the lord of man, and his incandescent followers. The last arch stands before you: a door. You mark their foreheads with grey storm-water. The graven valves of the door creak open, permitting the light of the sky to spear through.
"You are not the god of man," risks the father, adjusting at monocle that he no longer needs. "You are not one of his aspects."
<...No...>
"And yet..."
<..And yet I shall still guide you home...>, you finish, pushing them forward with your cold touch.
<Hold each other. Shutter your eyes. Hold your breath.>
<And go.>
