[hr][hr][center][h2][b][i][color=b8860b]Keystone[/color][/i][/b][/h2][/center]
[b][center][color=b8860b]Location:[/color] Woods North of Salarn, Orc Encampment, Evening of Day Three [/center][/b][b][center][color=b8860b]Interacting With: [/color] Orcs, vigorously. [/center][/b][hr][hr]

	Keystone trudged from their little campsite, intent on taking care of urgent, personal business. He could have sworn he spotted a couple of passable copses of trees nearby, and was confident that he could find them again in the dying light. Of course, if he found them passable, it was quite possible that they were already under strenuous use of the local fauna, i.e. the Warband of Orcs. Keystone's sight in the dark was generally superior for a human, but he did not have the true nighttime sight that their hosts possessed. The possibility of splatting heavily into multiple days' worth of Orcshit after a botched footfall was a concern. Perhaps instead, he reasoned, he should just walk a straight line for a minute or two and quite literally "let the chips fall where they may". 

	He clearly heard the advice offered by Kyra to stay downwind of the group, and responded with an annoyed, [color=b8860b]"Yeah, yeah..."[/color] and dismissive hand wave. To his credit, he did stop, turn his head about to feel the wind's direction on his face, and shift his angle of departure. 

	Silence. Dead silence after the tromping of his thick, steel-toed boots faded into the young evening. Not even the war party around them seemed to make much of a sound, curious as to the intentions of the large Human. The quiet deepened, even as the nocturnal insects ceased their chirping, allowing the moment to hang there with glaring, pregnant pause. 

	A sound finally did issue across the moonlit forest. It was hazy and uncertain, observable for a half second before being drowned out by exclamations of approval in the guttural tongue of their hosts, uncertainty striking anyone not in the immediate vicinity of the event unfolding as to its true nature. The quiet returned, though not as absolute as before. There was an underlying shuffling of leaves over rainpacked soil, the quieter sounds of feet jostling for position. The apprehensive, total quiet returned. 

	A dot of campfire, low and embery in the evening hour, was the best guess of the central point of this strange happening. It was confirmed very quickly as a murderous noise tore from that very fire, the sound of a great avalanche rolling into a lake of jam; a bubbly, tearing sound that struck deep into the very psyche of many around as unnatural, possibly in conjunction with forces most sinister. It lasted far longer than the lung capacity of a mortal man could scream without faltering, with an emotion of raw, abyssal hopelessness radiating outward therefrom.