therealpm

*Peter wakes up several times during the night.  The bright sodium glare of the streetlights regularly tricking his brain into thinking it's dawn.  Eventually, he gets up, grabs a spare blanket and hangs it on the highest window bar he can reach.  It doesn't block all the light, but enough to let him sleep until morning.

The morning is not a happy one, Peter's mental stock taking: 'Owner: one.  Practically incurable disease: one.  Means to contact George: zero.' does not lend itself to cheer.  Now that he's less furious, he can feel his magic roiling beneath D'Souza's binding, giving him a continuous need to figit or find some other outlet for the pent up force.  He paces the room.*

Ow. I am never going to listen to anything that little troll says ever again.

I will be busy for the next few days weeks months however long it takes to get rid of this bloody limp the forseeable future. Any pressing questions should be directed here.