Neither completely sober, nor well rested after the long night's drinking, Tal mops his face with the sleeve of his stained shirt.  This day has been a living hell so far, and he thought perhaps he could steal a bit of shuteye.<br/><br/>The damned Orcan bastard is banging on his sheild; and each strike sends pains shooting through his head.  Mumbled curses do little towards a cure.  He ties his hair back out of his face with a rag and pulls on his boots.<br/><br/>The others are already gathered as he reaches the deck.<br/><br/>"Cease that banging, you great clod!  What's so damned important?"