Days turned into two weeks, and still the Harvester didn't show his face. Friar stood in one of the caves closest to the surface and watched the Harvest Moon's blood red light filter into the cave, illuminating the rock with a rust-like tint.

Well, it was now or never, he supposed. The word still swam in his mind, echoed hundreds of times across dozens of spirits since the first time he heard it whispered. Galatea.

Still none had revealed to him what it meant. He'd even sought out adventurers and interrogated them on the matter, but none of them knew the meaning either; it seemed to be lost to time.

How interesting, how such a seemingly important word could vanish. Sure, it had been hundreds if not thousands of years, but surely it would linger in the collective consciousness; to disappear entirely... Friar wondered if it was forgotten intentionally, then dismissed the thought; he could ask the Harvester and finally put this mystery to rest.

"Harvester!" He cried out, stepping into the moon's light. His voice bounced off the rock walls of the cavern, repeating back to him endlessly, crashing into itself like shrapnel. "Are you here?"

There was a long pause, during which Friar briefly considered giving up on the whole thing and casting the mystery of Galatea out of his mind. But a flicker of movement caught his eye, and when he turned the Harvester was there, stepping forwards like he had been standing there the whole time.

"Hello, Friar." The Harvester greeted in that strange, otherworldly voice. It sounded as though someone was echoing his words, slightly delayed, like the suggestion of a whisper. It had been offputting when Friar had first met the Harvester, years ago when he was just a foal, but he was used to it now.

"Harvester." Friar greeted, trotting across the cavern to stand in front of him. The Harvester was difficult to look at directly, so he focused on the wall behind him instead. "You're difficult to track down."

The Harvester tilted his head. "What do you ask of me?"

"What's Galatea?" He asked immediately, and something in the Harvester's form wavered, like a stone skipped across still water. The Harvester looked away and did not answer.

"What's Galatea?" Friar pressed, making the mistake of looking directly at the Harvester's face. His head swam with sudden nausea and he closed his eyes for a long moment, realizing his mistake immediately.

When he looked, the Harvester was gone, and he swore, kicking the ground with his hoof. Of course the Harvester would stay just as silent as the spirits he shepherded; it was probably him who enforced their silence in the first place.

"Another dead end," he muttered, glaring balefully up at the moon.

The bat had remained silent on his back throughout the whole ordeal, but now it chittered in his ear almost sympathetically. He scoffed, then sighed, and turned to descend back into the dungeons