[Cards] Pocket Poppet

The farmer stepped quietly out of the craggy paths; none entered that maze of ever-autumnal gorges and vales without reason, and for him, it was year upon year of blighted crops.

But he'd seen to it. And unlike tales giving up children, beauty, or years of life, all he had to do was harvest a little hair—from a friend, from a lover, from a local girl, and his own. He could see his fields hardier than they'd ever been, so strange as it was, nothing ill'd come of it, right? With who he called on, that was almost another world, right?

A sick feeling engulfed him and, vision clearing, he saw at his feet a crow's feather piercing a single, small vertebra, the bone stained with drops of blood.

The only thought that ran in his mind was, small as the price seemed, there would be no forgiveness for it. And no escape, either, from its creditor.