Tavros nods. It'd be nice if he could get his recuperacoon or a similar substitute. The beds didn't look all that bad in a pinch, but he'd be stuck flat on his back, not even able to turn his head because of his horns, and he'd feel completely exposed.

He describes sopor slime as best he can. It's a relaxant of sorts, a nourishing green substance that dulls the nightmares brought on by a strange warlike insectile hivemind he's not fully aware of. All he knows is it's hard to get any decent sleep without.