[ By this point in the afternoon, John's books and notes have been pushed aside. His collection of bone-bits and bloodstones and, occasionally, vials of deeply dangerous material have been carefully rearranged into the center of the table. Across from him sits an older man, grey-haired and stocky, in a long traveler's coat and glasses. They regard each other in silent, focused intensity, the air between them expectant.

The King Undying, Necrolord Prime, Scourge of Death, etc, reaches into the space between them. He picks up the vial of Beast blood, which roils unpleasantly in its glass confines.

Then he leans forward to set it down with a decisive click, onto... their haphazardly drawn grid. ]

Right, so. If I move here, that shouldn't provoke an attack of opportunity. [ He drums his inkstained fingers on the tabletop, intent as a man studying genuine battle plans. ] I have to be honest, swinging a sword has never been my forte, even in fiction. Can I cast a spell?