Bramblepoint the devil's right there in the details

She appears to be defeated, but he cannot trust her. Some part of him refuses to allow him to face what she's saying. It isn't much but it is enough to make him wonder, to question, and to feel a deep-rooted denial. He slinks towards her face and, still at quite a distance, lowers himself down so that he can look at her eye-to-eye.

Nnnoh, he drawls.

I am Mou. This comes out clearer than anything he's said before, confident, self-assured. But more than that, he doesn't struggle against the stale feeling of his throat. He licks his lips and repeats, I ahm Mou Meh-loh-nee. He thinks this is enough to prove her wrong. But there are questions nagging at him. If she's so certain of who he is, she'll have to prove it. T.. tawk, tehll me, who, he demands that she explain, but he cannot clearly ask as much. Its too many words. Too many sounds he isn't confident in making. So he tries to ask the same question again but with emphasis — he didn't care about the name. He wanted details.

Who'es Screeh — to you?