Conal O'Neill opened one eye slowly, glaring at the alarm clock that had gone off on the table across the room, the radio erupting in the altogether too cheery for this time in the morning voices of the station morning crew. He considered trying to pull the covers over his head and trying to go back to sleep, but it was probably a bit late for that. He blew out a long breath. "Too much to get done today anyway." he muttered, throwing back the blankets and sitting upright.<br/><br/>He ran his fingers through his black hair, trying to get it in some semblance of order, or at least out of his light brown eyes, and yawned again. "Shouldn't have stayed up so late last night." he said, rising and heading for the bathroom.<br/><br/>- - - -<br/><br/>An hour later found him somewhat more presentable, and climbing into his car, a ten year old Volvo S40. He set his backpack with the laptop and assorted tools into the back seat, lying the plain wooden walking stick (his old jo staff) next to it. There was enough going on around the Hill of Tara these days that a little added protection wasn't a bad idea at all.<br/><br/>He settled down into the drivers seat, starting the car and flicking on his stereo, nodding his head to the bass beat that erupted from the speakers, and set off.