[Dylas is used to people backing away when they see him. Months ago, he'd followed a voice in the mountains and ended up with his bones crushed, reshaped from a Wendigo to a Naga. Either form is terrifying, unpleasing. But somehow? It feels a little less disheartening here, because he is clearly staring at what seems to be some kind of gremlin toddler.]

It's my bad, kid. [Except he doesn't sound apologetic.] Is your mom somewhere nearby? And did she forget to give you clothes?

[But even now he has an inkling that he's not speaking to an actual child. He's just not in the mood to put up with anyone, not when another patch of turbulence makes his stomach churn and he has to grip the crate harder.]

Urk. What are you talking about? I'm fine. And what are you doing here?