"One word is on the lips of every spirit, two-legged or Courser, man or elf: Galatea. Galatea. Galatea. The Harvester is silent if queried on the matter. What do you make of this?"

"Something heavy drops from above and attaches itself to your back! You cannot see it no matter how you contort your body, but you can feel it gripping your skin with pointy claws, and you can hear it panting with the effort clinging to your body. How do you finally casr the horrible thing away?"