The little man-thing in question whips his head around to stare back--and up--at Alcina, his expression gone wide-eyed and bone white from terror. It is only partly her fault; the rabbiting pulse at his throat is twisting in a snare laid by someone else entirely.

"Ghastly. Utterly distasteful. You would think Moreau had the run of the place. Do stand up, they're unseemly enough without you adding to the display."

And in the pause between one breath and the next, something shutters behind Jin Guangyao's eyes. He lowers his gaze, affixes a modest and neutral half-smile onto his face and gathers himself back up to his feet with all the grace he can muster; he pointedly ignores the sea water and sand on the thin cloth that covers him. The bow he executes is perfect, even with the care he takes to hide his missing right hand from view. His tone when he says, "Ayi, this one humbly begs your pardon," is precise and solicitous without veering too close to obsequiousness. That is what matters.

Still, after a pause, he lifts his gaze a fraction and, if no further reprimands arrive, turns to look back towards the nest of eyes still embedded in the sand. The sight of them turns his stomach, and he swallows, hard. It takes him a moment to find his voice again. "Forgive this one his ignorance, but..." He turns to look back at Alcina, cautious and wide-eyed as a baby deer by design. "...where are we?"