Given the herbs and potions and magical wards that surround them, a pen and paper seem almost humorously low-tech. They're a strange anachronism in a place like this, but Wrench considers the offering with some gratitude. He and John have been working lately to expand the capacity of his blood magic and the telepathy it's granted him, but there's something invasive about pushing towards a veritable stranger with his mind. Something that makes him less willing to use it as a standard practice, no matter how easy it might be to have that unfiltered line of communication.

He reaches for both with all the consideration of a man who seems to know he's best used as a tool for intimidation. The knife is still in his right hand, and despite the way the young woman looks he's not eager to lay it down somewhere that he might lose track of it. Wrench awkwardly shifts it to his left hand and cradles the pad of paper against the crook of his arm to scribble on the page.

Wrench. I'm a friend of John's. He let me stay here. Are you looking for something? When he's done writing, he offers back both the notebook and the pen.