Name: Caleb Chisholm<br/>Age: 20<br/>Gender: Male<br/>Species:<span style="font-style: italic">Homo Sapiens</span><br/>Personality: Serious to a fault, often bored, and annoyingly intelligent.  Also slightly paranoid - he has a tendency to think of everything that goes wrong as a personal insult from the Almighty.<br/>Description: 5'5", wiry, with short and straight black hair, almond-shaped brown eyes, a pointed nose, a thin, grim mouth, and a touch of acne.  He wears the most unimpressive clothing imaginable - usually a mono-color t-shirt, blue or grey, with a faded pair of blue jeans and a white pair of sneakers.<br/>Likes: Endosomatophilia, soft oral vore, macro/micro, mouth play.<br/>Dislikes: Pretty much everything else.<br/>Room: 102<br/><br/>--------------------------------------------<br/><br/>It was the snow, he decided.  It had to be the snow.  How could a man be expected to keep his head on straight with all that endless white rushing past at a speed only God knew?  Yes, it was most certainly the snow that had brought on his recent illness.  There could be no doubt about this, for Caleb Chisholm had<span style="font-style: italic">never</span>suffered from motion-sickness.<br/><br/>He groaned in something near to agony mixed with a fair dose of black irony, unable in his present condition to appreciate the beauty, even opulence, of the ornately fashioned table on which he rested his head.  "I hope you're happy," he grumbled accusingly, his eyes momentarily glaring up at the clear sky.  "I'm surrounded by splendor, and all I can think about is how much I'd rather be at home, sleeping!"<br/><br/>He heard a barely audible<span style="font-style: italic">click</span>as the conductor opened the door to his room.  "May I see your ticket, sir?" he asked politely.<br/><br/>"Table," Caleb groaned, waving his hand vaguely toward his luggage.<br/><br/>The conductor frowned.  "Sir," he said in a firmer tone, "I really must insist-"<br/><br/>"Oh,<span style="font-style: italic">fine</span>" Caleb grumbled, pawing feebly at the large backpack in front of him.  Navigating by touch, he managed to find the zipper after a few moments and laboriously pulled it open.  He pulled the small paper ticket out and held it up above his head.  The conductor scrutinized the document for a few moments, then straightened, nodded politely, and left the room, closing the door behind him with that same soft<span style="font-style: italic">click</span>.<br/><br/>It was only then that Caleb realized he'd forgotten to ask for medication.  Swearing sulfurously, he lurched to his door, wrenched it open, and stepped out onto the corridor.  "Perhaps a walk will settle my stomach," he muttered dubiously.