The room was suddenly quiet; Zahir's snoring had become a repetitive background noise. Downstairs the tavern was bustling with people, shouting, laughing, drinking; forgetting their own names, their worries, their vows. The air was thick with smoke and long forgotten dreams. The barmaids served drink after drink, flirted with man after man. And one by one their wallets were emptied.
Zahir painfully opened one eye. His head was spinning, pounding, but he wasn't going to throw up. He sat up very slowly, attempting to shield his eyes from the light of the waning sun. "Uuugh. I think I overdid it jus a lil bit," he groaned, holding the side of his head. He slowly looked over at Ezra's sleeping form. He closed his eyes slowly, and opened them again, everything moving like molasses. He felt so dizzy, he just wanted the spinning to stop. He moved his hands inside his jacket to check his pockets, and although he had been relieved of more money, he was left with just a few coin. He had his daggers, without which he would be lost. Somewhere along the way between the bar and the bed, or perhaps while passed out, he had lost his shoes. He shrugged, annoyed. It wasn't a deal breaker. He started to rise to his feet, a little wobbly, still holding the side of his head.
" Man, I'm gonna need to coffee up fer this," he moaned.