The galah descends in sudden swoop, alighting boldly before your gaze; breath quick and laden deep with fate. He speaks in tones that blend the haste of need with the melodramatic flourish of a stage.

"O gentle soul—wilt thou stand idle still, whilst feathers fall like leaves in autumn’s breath? Behold me: I am but a humble bird, yet peril’s talons clutch about my breast. This hour is dark, and I, bereft of aid, must cast my plea into thine embrace."

Instinctively, the galah's crest raises like dawn’s first flame. He unfurls his wing towards you—an offered banner of kinship

"Mine enemy—a fiend of wing and wile— Manorina, lord of noisy miners vile, commands a host of grey and clamorous kin. These honeyeaters, with their sharpen’d cries, drive gentler songsters from their native bowers, and scour the wide dominions of the Southern lands."

"If thou hast honour beating in thy heart, then join with me! Take up this cause of skies, and strike against the fowl that mar the realm. Let tyrants learn: no plume nor voice is safe when justice wakes and fortune lends her wing."