( once manon begins to speak, the Archivist falls into something of a trance. the rest of the world falls away, becoming little more than vague backdrop and distracting static; the only thing of import are the various threads that begin to unspool from the account that had been at the heart of this mystery, of this debate, from the very beginning. but the fabric of this statement isn't complete. some of the threads are frayed, others... potentially missing? — he can tell, even before it becomes painfully obvious. there's a flicker of something like surprise and something like aggravation that contorts his expression for just a second before it disappears, though his brows do draw together in solemn consideration.
for the entirety of the account, he doesn't blink. there is only the dark intensity of his stare, so focused and eerie that it can cause gooseflesh to prickle at the back of one's neck — a gravitational void into which the experience flows, toppling, before disappearing.
he comes back to himself with a shudder; his eyelids flicker and then close into a blink, opening once more with a sharp intake of breath to focus on the arrow once more, as if suddenly remembering that he's impaled through the shoulder and pinned to the wall like, like — the sympathetic experience of taking a statement from someone in person still swims in the forefront of his mind, so for the moment it makes him feel like manon had felt, pinned to a table, helpless against whatever it was that his captor planned to do with what made up his soul. his breath rattles out of him unevenly, fear thrilling through every vein.
it feels dreadful. and it feels — fantastic. even in the state he is, having lost as much blood as he has, john suddenly looks haler than anyone might have seen him since he arrived in kenos; the sickly sort of pallor to his expression and vague shakiness to his limbs had vanished with the satisfaction he found in this fear. it's as if every moment he's struggled through up until this moment had been one in a half-conscious state, but now he's awake. he's alive.
he mentally sorts through everything he'd heard as liem asks a rather salient question that had occurred to him as well. the answer... is satisfactory, though john still has his own thoughts on the matter. they are not meant for the present mixed company.
he swallows, then he says, ) ...Thank you. ( and for all the world it sounds like a guest thanking their host for a delicious meal. a small sound of pain scrapes out of the back of his throat as he very slightly readjusts his position. ) Even if we wished to stop you, ( which john, content with this statement, personally doesn't care to, ) we're certainly not in any position to try.
( he thinks for a moment to chastise the meridian here present for speaking and acting as they have without any real show of violence or threat from the Zenites either here present or back up above, but... it feels like it would be a pointless waste of breath (and possibly enough to gain him another arrow). so he goes tensely silent, a thick and aggrieved sort of judgment emanating from his gaze. )
If there are no further questions that need to be answered, ( he glances to cid and zhongli, ) The Meridian can leave with Manon. Once you've departed, ( he exhales, flinches — are they still fighting those horrible monsters back the way they came? ) ...we will make our own way back.
no subject
for the entirety of the account, he doesn't blink. there is only the dark intensity of his stare, so focused and eerie that it can cause gooseflesh to prickle at the back of one's neck — a gravitational void into which the experience flows, toppling, before disappearing.
he comes back to himself with a shudder; his eyelids flicker and then close into a blink, opening once more with a sharp intake of breath to focus on the arrow once more, as if suddenly remembering that he's impaled through the shoulder and pinned to the wall like, like — the sympathetic experience of taking a statement from someone in person still swims in the forefront of his mind, so for the moment it makes him feel like manon had felt, pinned to a table, helpless against whatever it was that his captor planned to do with what made up his soul. his breath rattles out of him unevenly, fear thrilling through every vein.
it feels dreadful. and it feels — fantastic. even in the state he is, having lost as much blood as he has, john suddenly looks haler than anyone might have seen him since he arrived in kenos; the sickly sort of pallor to his expression and vague shakiness to his limbs had vanished with the satisfaction he found in this fear. it's as if every moment he's struggled through up until this moment had been one in a half-conscious state, but now he's awake. he's alive.
he mentally sorts through everything he'd heard as liem asks a rather salient question that had occurred to him as well. the answer... is satisfactory, though john still has his own thoughts on the matter. they are not meant for the present mixed company.
he swallows, then he says, ) ...Thank you. ( and for all the world it sounds like a guest thanking their host for a delicious meal. a small sound of pain scrapes out of the back of his throat as he very slightly readjusts his position. ) Even if we wished to stop you, ( which john, content with this statement, personally doesn't care to, ) we're certainly not in any position to try.
( he thinks for a moment to chastise the meridian here present for speaking and acting as they have without any real show of violence or threat from the Zenites either here present or back up above, but... it feels like it would be a pointless waste of breath (and possibly enough to gain him another arrow). so he goes tensely silent, a thick and aggrieved sort of judgment emanating from his gaze. )
If there are no further questions that need to be answered, ( he glances to cid and zhongli, ) The Meridian can leave with Manon. Once you've departed, ( he exhales, flinches — are they still fighting those horrible monsters back the way they came? ) ...we will make our own way back.