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They were our forests, our skies, our home -- beautiful Tinolqa, clouds framed by leaves and our sisters' wings. When they cast us out they knew naught what they did; or if they did know, they knew better and went through with it anyway.

Now they willingly bring their lambs before us, to a land they once denied. Our children born deformed, the winds refusing to bellow some of their names -- what more anguish do they wish to visit upon us?

Whatever it is, we will not stand idly by. These are our forests, our mountains, our home, and you did not want them, leaving a pittance to us. We will return your crimes to you in blood, or we will die trying.

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