Colonel Tavington staggered into his room in Middleton Place. He normally didn't sleep in the room, just used it as a sort of Smoking lounge when his temper was pretically high and he needed a break from his irritating and mostly ignorant band of Dragoons. But today he decided to sleep in the room. He'd spent the morning doing endless reports and being plagued by a headache that wouldn't give him even a moment of peace. After he finished the reports, around three o'clock in the afternoon, he broke up a fight between two Sergeants. He's then spent the next two hours trying to figure out what started the fight. He finally came to the conclusion that both men should be assigned to mucking out horse stalls. He still wasn't entirely sure what started the fight, but his horse's stall needed cleaning and he sure, as Hell wasn't going to do it himself. So that's how he came to seek refugee in his room from the ending woes and miseries of camp life. He slid into a chair at his desk, closed his blue gray eyes, and pressed his hands against his throbbing head. He sighed and opened his eyes. It was no use, his head still hurt. He looked out the window at the rapidly darkening sky; it appeared another December storm was about to hit. He got up from his desk and lay down on his bed. He kept a single candle lit, for the room would soon darken and he didn't want to have to fumble around trying to light a candle if something was to come up. The candle illuminated his worn face as he fell into a feverish sleep.