"Faith," he echoes: a little wry, like it's funny. It is, a bit. All the myriad things he's been accused of, and here is a world in which people worship vast inhuman creatures which warp human spirits into squids. The mundanity of it is consistently insulting. A proper eldritch god should be more unknowable in its workings, more spirit and spectre and gnashing teeth, yet here he stands humbled by the apparent themes of blood colors and squids.

Still: a good, snappy reply. Altogether promising. John tips his head in acknowledgement, and resumes drumming his fingers on the wood.

"My curiosity is about the nature of their faith. It seems the locals assign dominion of rebirth to the Pthumerian Mariana; she is the sea, and a broader force of cyclical change. It's a tidy association." Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap. "But it's all peculiarly high-level, if you ask me. No one seems interested in the minutiae. I ask, when has humankind failed to pore over the minutiae of anything? Why no interest in the mechanics of death, or the currents beyond?"

Tap-tap, and the rhythm breaks so he can rub the crease between his eyebrows.

"Why squids?"