Targ's snores are rather epic in scope, sounding like waves crashing upon the shore... provided the waves were made of pots and pans. His sleep was undisturbed, except for a few vague uneasy dreams of the ugly bad magic woman. He tromped downstairs, his stomach grumbling, and for once divested of weapons. He grabbed a prodigious amount of ale, whatever meat is available, eggs, and bread, and begins to stuff it all in his face with a fine disregard for manners and mouth capacity.
"Whaf ee oong ooay?" he asks around a mouthful. After thinking for a second, most could translate that into 'what we doing today?'
