[ John has no one to narrate their surroundings for, but he carries on the practice in the comfort of his mind: The man stands frozen, he would say. He looks— feral. Tensed to bolt. The weapon at his back is massive, and the metal is pitted and strange, almost... organic in its decay.
The patterns draw on an old pressure in the back of his mind, an unsettling familiarity. It is the sort of sight he would expect to find only in the Dreamlands, or in worse and darker worlds. ]
What? [ His tone is wary to the point of rudeness. Just as Jayce is staring at his sigil, John is still fixed upon that hammer. ]
no subject
The patterns draw on an old pressure in the back of his mind, an unsettling familiarity. It is the sort of sight he would expect to find only in the Dreamlands, or in worse and darker worlds. ]
What? [ His tone is wary to the point of rudeness. Just as Jayce is staring at his sigil, John is still fixed upon that hammer. ]