"Iddin," Enki said, his voice quiet but clear, cutting through the uneasy silence. "You are telling them what to feel. You are giving them a lesson. But a story should not preach. It should remind them of what they already know."
Iddin looked offended, his artistic pride stung. "I am telling the truth of what happened!"
"Are you?" Enki asked. He held up the clay, cold and wet and real. "What is the truth of the flood? Was it the anger of the gods? Or was it the cold of the water?"
He looked around at the people, his gaze connecting with each pair of frightened eyes. "What did the flood truly feel like? Do not tell me about gods. Tell me about the mud."
He turned back to Iddin and pressed the cold, heavy clay into the storyteller's hands. "The truth is not in the lesson. It is in the weight. What did the mud feel like on your skin that day? What did your empty stomach feel like, twisted in knots? What did the hand of the person next to you feel like when they pulled you from the water? Tell me that story."