Iomhar hefted his offering basket carefully in hand as he approached the altar. He was careful as he settled it beside the stone, placing it beside the still untouched offerings he’d left the day before.
There, he knelt. He spoke quietly, his words meant just for his god.
“The harvest has been good, thanks to you.”
He began to settle the goods he’d brought at the base of the shrine, lifting them from the basket: fresh fruit, from his trees. Meat from his hunts.
“Some things are… less good.” He frowned. “But…I don’t know if you can help with that. I suppose there’s nothin’ wrong with praying for it though.”
His thoughts turned to his mother, and the sickness that plagued her, and his daughter, lonely and quiet without her mother.
“I guess that’s why ’m here again,” he finished. “T’ ask you for help, if y’ can give it.”