Every second she speaks, each of her words is accompanied by a perfectly-matching scratch of pen on paper. He listens, entirely rapt on the story, able to see what an aboleth truly is in his mind. It's interesting, how something so foreign can feel so at home among every other monster he's seen. There could have certainly been one of those under London's streets, a horrible thing of Corruption, spreading it's terror beneath the skin of people for miles upon miles, and Jon wouldn't have thought a thing of it.

When she finally stops, he lays the paper and pen together on his coffee table. He knows exactly what she's searching for, and it doesn't matter that she wasn't polite enough to ask, nor that he hadn't warranted her to be any less brusque with him - he stands, raises a hand, and steps to the kitchen.

He returns with a glass of water, and offers it over; the step away finally returns his gaze to something less intense and drawn in to her terror. Now, he looks bright, alert, but... concerned, even if she had just been threatening him only a short while ago.

"Here. I probably should have grabbed a glass for you before we sat down, that's my mistake," He offers, no trace of the firm certainty in his voice from when he'd compelled the story out of her. "Thank you for sharing that with me. If I may ask, your friend--- was he alright, after you escaped?"