They drink from streams whose waters taste like tears, and indeed each swallow fills them with a few heartbeats of deep sadness.

At least half of his hunters writhed on the ground with grubs already inside them, causing horrendous agony. These had to be helped away by terrified Ship People whose courage lay trembling in their hearts as lightly as leaves.

Stupid men, always thinking they're the ones who get to do the rescuing.

I've hated some of them too. Most of them sometimes. And they do think differently, but that's a good thing, isn't it? A hand isn't a f-foot, but I need them both to hunt.