Rustling and able to manage some semblance of movement beneath the covers of his bed, Orion wiped at his dry mouth and pursed his lips as he rolled onto his back.  A semi-glistening item begged for his attention from the corner of his right eye.  It was his flask, and the manner in which it lay there, metal cap unscrewed, reminded him that it was empty.  In that moment, he wished it was full again, as a smattering of memories from last night rushed to his hung-over brain.<br/><br/>He wondered if coughing up a lung would be reason enough to cancel the previously-planned day’s ride and picnic with Cassiopeia.  The Princess.  The Sex Fiend.  The Falconer (or whatever the hell they were called!).  The Face Slapper.  The Prince rolled back toward his left.  Thinking of these alternate names for his bride-to-be was taxing, as he struggled to think of something with Tunnel in it.  Instead, The Bride of Orion assaulted his senses.  Rolling once more, he continued left, thus ending up on the floor with a thud.<br/><br/>Wincing at the rude awakening, Orion thought, Well, this is sure shaping up to be a great day.  Surveying his surroundings: the plush carpet, the base of his nightstand, the distant dresser, he fell back asleep on the floor of his bedroom.