gabbleratchets — gabriel ratchets, the flying dogs with the heads of men — are reckoned the most bitter of all Dunlockslyn's creatures: angels of evil, bloody scars on the face of D'divi. They take you off the street talons-first, four to a victim, two on each arm, and carry you screaming into the murknight — then suck the soul out through your eyes and leave the sockets staring.

Up above the old pumping station, on a dirty discarded track in the wisewood, lives the gosava tree — a rapacious predator rooted to the ground, its tangle of dark dripping branches blackening the canopy. It is always hungry; the gift of live human flesh comes maybe once a season, and when it takes you it draws you down with a low subsonic moan, splays you into a cruciform, and Dunlockslyn thanks you for the sacrifice.