[ Adopting a bit of that poise that Damian was so willingly throwing away, John saunters back over to his cache of supplies in his desk. He's cautious to keep his back to him so that he doesn't risk his own skin by letting the child catch him stifling a laugh. He masks the noise in a feeble cough, passable with how damn much he smokes. But they have bigger matters to attend to. ]


You prefer guided meditation, or d'you take care of yourself? Either way, I've some experimental noise records that might set the mood.

[ Sure, it seemed counter-productive to wind the boy up while they were trying to teach him to relax and think positive, but it's part of the test. Meanwhile John is doing a mental checklist of everything he'll need to pull off the summon.

His own blood to bind the spell, naturally.

Pocket knife to draw blood, he probably had one in a pocket.

Offerings of death and decay - shouldn't be too hard, lord knows there were enough things growing mold in that desk he never cleaned.

His wand - one of his own design and build. Acacia wood stained a curious dark red, twelve and a quarter inches, a series of wards and runes carved by hand into its surface, thestral tail hair core. Although he rarely used it, preferring the older, off-the-book types of magicks that weren't so easily-harnessed by waving a stick and asking nicely in broken Latin catchphrases. Still, he'd need to be ready to summon his own Patronus if this went pear-shaped. He patted down his right forearm where he kept it holstered under his sleeve with leather straps. It was a carrying technique of his own invention since he felt naked unless his hands were free. There was something to be said for throwing a punch, sometimes. ]

Whenever you're ready, lad.