The sun hung low over the horizon, casting long shadows across the fields as Finn wiped the sweat from his brow. The summer had been harsh, the rains sporadic, and his crops were withering despite his best efforts.

He had tried everything—tilling the soil, spreading the last of his fertilizer, praying to every god he could think of. Yet, the earth remained stubborn, yielding nothing but dry, cracked dirt.

Desperate, Finn decided to take a different approach. He’d heard tales from the old folk in town about how, in ancient times, farmers would build shrines to attract the favor of gods who might bless the land.

They spoke of gods who could coax the seeds to life, bring rain from the skies, or ward off pests. Though he wasn’t sure he believed in such things, Finn felt he had little left to lose.

So, with the last of his energy, he set to work. He gathered stones from the edges of his fields, stacking them carefully in a secluded corner of his property.

He adorned the shrine with symbols of the harvest: a sickle, a bundle of wheat, and a few apples that had survived the drought. Finn knelt before the shrine, his knees digging into the earth, and whispered a plea into the twilight air.

“Please,” he said, “if there is any god out there, any spirit of the land, hear my prayer. Help me save my crops, my farm. I don’t ask for much, just enough to get by.”