The way he shifts, pulling his head back, might give the distinct impression of a bird's ruffled feathers, and those long tears of fabric—and certain places on the many layers he wears—curl further and flex. More creature than clothing, almost, casting strange shadows against each that seem much too solid. When he speaks, his voice rumbles faintly with what might just be indignation.

"I wasn't running." He was hurrying—entirely different thing. "I've been trying to find where these voices are coming from. Finding a voice from a person..." Another few "thmp"s accompany the words. There's a growl that forms in his chest, resembling the thunder that rumbles overhead, but it doesn't quite leave him—it dissipates, instead, as John restrains himself. Misdirected frustration helps no one.

"Illusion isn't an unusual tactic." In his experience. Lying, misguiding, deflecting—he's done all that and more. "But not all voices are madness or illusion." He tips his head towards his left shoulder. "They may be lost." He isn't convinced, but he has no reason to assume they might not be some sort of ghost or trapped in other ways. He doesn't know enough about this place, and his own senses are different from mortal. Or, they were...