We are in the forest of Monte d'Or. England. There is no such thing as an "Atlamillia", see? You're lost, sorely mistaken, and really should be going now. [their arm extends further ever so slightly.]

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wasting our precious time.

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Ha.. Hahahaha!! AHAHAHAA! Oh, I must be feeling quite the envy—no, I do believe that title must rightfully be mine if we are to speak of devils, curses and regrets. [they tilt their head to the side, then pointed back toward the air.] See? No association. You're horribly confused, and -

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(Don't hurt—!) {I won't. You know I wouldn't.} Do you lack any awareness? If anyone is a mimic, clearly it is you. Hiding behind the visage of a small child. Who are you? What do you want from him? Answer me, you simple minded coward.

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[enough. this is how the ones we love are killed. by being far too slow to even breathe.] [the shoulder that had been blown earlier readjusts like blood cells tending a wound; mending and extending out to pluck the 'little one' off the ground, raising him high into the air.]

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