Wheeling Gull Isle don't buy nestle products

Remembering suddenly that Moorhen had dug out the red beam when he'd struggled with it, Titmouse thought of doing the same to this strange thing — but he circled it and wondered, loomed and investigated, chewed on that opening or listened to the bottle's surface crackling as it shifted beneath his teeth, and was honestly too distracted by the strangeness to continue with the excavation. He stopped when a voice permeated the air — one he didn't know — and he looked up to see the pale woman. She was unfamiliar to him. Older, bigger, reminding him on first glance of a walking chunk of sea ice.

It struck him then, just like his previous thought had appeared so swiftly, that Titmouse didn't know how to answer that question.

Who are you? He had so many names, and most of them he couldn't even speak aloud anymore. Out of necessity's sake he resorted to calling himself, Mou, with a little bow of his head. He might not have identified with the name much anymore, but the wolves of Undersea knew him as such, and it was easier than trying to wheeze out his real name.

Then he turned his attention back to the clear object. I'unno wha dis, he admitted, plonking down on his rear like a child confronting an unfamiliar concept.