He opened his palm and displayed to her an old, worn, dun-colored stone carvingof a bird. Only rose-colored embers remained. The water around Tezziq wasstained dark. Birds calling.
Well, she is in all ways a conventionalTuskugggun. In truth, Bartta could not think at all—at least, not in the way one customarily defines thinking. The crowd howled, sensing thefinish. The hoary knuckles of its basal roots displaced the artful patternof the stone, an ironic comment on how life reclaims the void and transforms it.
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