Those Antipodean syllables are an interesting quirk; Armand hasn't met many, lingering as he has in sheltered circles over the last couple of centuries. The amusement in his expression fades somewhat with John's response, replaced by a twitch of distaste as John scoffs his snack, scattering the scent of fake cheese and deep fried American corn.

"You are? And nothing else?" He tilts his head. His eyes are pumpkin orange, brightened with interest, pupils contracting. "This place is surrounded by something unnatural, and dark. It's not your doing, then?"