Morning, Dec. 17th.

[velesdonnersen]

[Verdammt, what a dream.  That's the first thing he thinks as he wakes up.  Even waking, it makes his skin crawl -- and his temper blaze.  Verdammt.  Fire and hail.  What in the name of the spark itself made him say he'd die if it was needed?  He rises, stretches, and tries to scrub the eerie sense of displacement from his skin and scalp.  He didn't feel this twitchy when Mayfield brought him through, or on waking from the several deaths the town has handed him.  He gets up, barely noticing the reliable sounds of Not!Luka!Anymore making breakfast, and Catherine and Perry preparing for school. He shucks out of his Mayfield-proper pajamas, takes a shower that doesn't seem to wash away the uneasy twitchiness. He brushes his teeth, shaves, and dresses for the day in a nice suit.  He wants to stop by Ilsa's on the way to work this morning.  He needs the reassurance she provides: the sense that he has a place in the universe, and a heart that welcomes him. He ambles down, grabs toast, a strip of bacon, and a glass of orange juice, then calls good-bye to his not!family, suddenly hungry for non-drone society.]

Action, arriving at Ilsa's, 1490 Kramden.

[Tarvek knocks on the door, and hunches into his very nice woolen coat: a proper lawyer's deep gray, tailored overcoat. He shoves his hands in his pockets and pulls his neck down like a turtle, hiding as much of his skin as he can in his cozy wool scarf. His fedora sits neatly on his head.  He dearly wants a cup of coffee and a warm hug from his liebe Ilsa. He'd even accept a friendly grunt from Egon, and a nod from the new not!child.]

Guten Morgen, Liebe!  It's cold out here.  Let a poor lost prince in, for the sake of the spark.