You hear the collector announce itself with a subtle rustle and sing-song chitter from above, and so you turn your gaze to the branches overhead. The fey has formed itself from a knot of wood and moss, wreathed with leaves as any respected courtier would, and in its facsimile of presence it regards you through hollow, expectant eyes. This is not a surprise. A token for passage, the Six had said, and the High Prince might let you on your way. The collector raises its tendrilous fronds toward you. What do you offer?
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