The moisture on the cave walls has gathered in the center of this chamber, forming a pool. Harmless, colorful invertebrates wave at you from the bottom. Ah… A peaceful respite. You can check your equipment and gather your thoughts here.

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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?

Headless stopped to rest and gather his thoughts after running into the spirit of a Courser, and to write about the new whispers he's been hearing (using the new spell he learned to help hold his journal). He's eager to get back to the tower to start researching the word 'Galatea' :3