"Galatea."

Friar whipped around to face the spirit who'd spoken. "What did you say?" He demanded. It was an elf, he thought, though he wasn't quite sure; he didn't have much experience differentiating between humanoids. But the spirit only blinked at him and vanished.

Friar cursed, circling in place. He was sure it had said Galatea, that odd word scratched into the mossy rock. Surely it meant something; it was too much of a coincidence to encounter it so close to one another. A name, maybe? Of a courser, a human, a place? If only he knew a historian, but historians didn't have much cause to venture into the dungeons themselves. Usually they had an adventurer go in their stead.

He brought his face close to the Harvester's vines, staring into their berries as though they would reveal the answer to him. Perhaps the berries wouldn't, but what about their master? The Harvester was old, old enough to remember the days before coursers ruled the surface. Surely he would know something.

..Of course, he would have to find the Harvester first. Which would be a hefty task in and of itself; typically when he ran into the Harvester it was because Friar was sought out, not the other way around. The only definite way to find the Harvester that he knew was during the Harvest Moon, but he didn't want to wait that long.

"Galatea," came another hushed whisper, mournfully breathed into his ear by a spectral courser.

"What does that mean?" Friar asked, but the courser only repeated the word before wandering into one of the nearby tunnels.

Clearly, the spirits wouldn't be of any help here. Friar picked a direction at random and began to head deeper into the dungeons, hoping he would stumble across the Harvester at random.