The small offerings were unusual. Bent. Broken. Nothing more than trinkets. Not the kind of objects that should be offered to a god.
A pity that gods often deal in shoulds.
A pity that gods are often wrong.
But then, what does a god know? A god is nothing more than human foibles lived larger, longer, stronger, sadder, couched in a case that is beautiful. So very beautiful. It's the beauty that brings about the worship. A perfect human foible, finding hope in beauty.
Small, broken, trinkets didn't tell the story of the god; they told the story of the bringer of tiny nothing gifts. No self-important man would offer such things. He should offer something big. Something grand. Gold. Or a great promise. Or blood. How dull such a person must be, all filled with shoulds. No, these small bits came from a beating heart. They had nothing to do with the god. Beating hearts don't deal with gods. They give anyway. They know there are greater things than gods.
They are unusual.
And this offering was unusual.
It was filled with all the things that 'should' should be.
It was big and grand that way.