[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, Early Morning of Day Four [/center][/b][b][center][color=b8860b]Interacting With:[/color] Thomas, Group In General [/center][/b][hr][hr]

	Keystone generally enjoy hearing Thomas talk. It was refreshing to him to hear speech phrased in such a bookish and elegant manner, obviously the preferred method of Magely folk about the world. Keystone's own accent and curious dialect marked him (to many) as a witless, uneducated oaf, incapable of contemplating the finer points of tiddlywinks; let alone the subtle idiosyncrasies of similar language from region to region. 

	Now, what people [i]didn't[/i] know about Keystone was that he was actually a reasonably well read man. Admittedly, he was no great pursuer of scholarly works, at least those that fell outside of his sphere of competence, but he was literate and curious, equally interested in reading as he was writing his personal philosophies, martial techniques, and observances relevant to his adventuring career. Point of fact, he had full intent to add to his books the first good chance he got, either on the road or back in Salarn. There was much to add after the events of the past few days, not the least of which being the flying blood-fog that sucked out a few pints of his sanguinity. 

	But back to the broad man's admiration of Thomas's way of speech. It was quite captivating. So captivating in fact, that while the group's dedicated spellcaster was speaking to Kyra about magic, shovels, and the like, Keystone reached into his pack and produced a large, leather bottle. He took a long, furious drink from it, for as long as Thomas continued speaking to Kyra. It was apparent that he was timing it by the sound of his voice, as if the duration of speech would somehow shape an event that was to follow. Being both introspective [i]and[/i] long-winded, Thomas ensured a more than healthy series of gulps of heretofore unknown liquid for the larger Keystone. And boy howdy, did he enjoy hearing Thomas talk. 

	As his speech drew down to a cessation, Keystone lowered the bottle. Yes, it was quite sufficient. More than necessary by at least seven seconds of pure, eye watering, thirst smashing action. Hopefully now, they could head out. But first, Keystone was compelled to share a little of his own native dialect with Thomas. He walked over to where Ntaj and Thomas were engaging in discourse, he inquiring as to the possibility of learning Orc, trading with lessons in Elvish. Still such sprightly talk of trading linguistic tips! Such was a conversation to which he intended to contribute. 

	Yes chums, Keystone shared the song of his people. It was only fair. 

	The growl could be heard emanating from his stomach, the sound of a drowning tiger in a deep, deep well, even before he opened his mouth to permit the egress of his vaporous leavings. The gurgling backdraft changed pitch fully twice before it rocketed past his esophagus and into the world at large, bearing with it the lightly soured aroma of fermentation. And neeps. It became a broad, bass sound, almost musical in the same way that a war horn or unrestrained bellow might accompany a symphony purely for dramatic effect. But what was the truly impressive part of this upper gastrointestinal rebellion was the utter, prolonged [i]duration[/i] of the belch. Never flinching, never altering nor stuttering as it roared out of him.  

	It was less of a feat on Keystone's part - it would be more accurate to say that he created the optimum conditions for the end result, that being the auditory equivalent of scrotum-torn demons screaming in unbreathing, backwards Dwarven; the collision of white-hot boulders raining upon each other and slamming into a lake of burning piss, to quench in a chorus of the roaring damned. All our ignoble protagonist needed do was maintain his own physical integrity while allowing the beast to exit. But it was not easy. 

	The effort contorted his face, widening his mouth to a diameter mildly disproportionate to the size of his head. The strain had completely closed one eye while simultaneously popping the other fully open, staring bloodshot into the morning light. His head vibrated visibly and listed slightly to one side. He widened his stance just to keep balance. Even this seemed to prove unreliable, so the bardsung Pugilist reached out a ham sized hand, grasping with no small amount of desperation at the nearest shoulder to him to steady his labors; it happened to be Thomas's. 

	The rolling burp continued. How long had it been? Mere seconds? Minutes? A half hour? The overbearing drone of escaping gut gas blasted away concepts like Time with its hypnotic, if unsettling rumble. It blared and fought, pitched and rolled from him. A tempest of juicy vapors exploding out of the man in ways not assumed to be within the boundaries of human possibility. Keystone turned his still belching face toward Thomas for the purpose of locking eyes, just enough so that he could see the thankful "thumbs up" he thrust out before him while the [i]rrrrraaaaaaaarp[/i] played on, unfortunately putting the poor sorcerer in the line of hair ruffling fire. Keystone nodded, possibly trying to indicate that his time upon the earth might be drawing to a conclusion, and that he had something to say to the man who was so unlike himself. He leaned in closer, pushing against the waves of sonic concussion trying to flail his head backwards as tears of strain streaked down his face; one or two of which fell in front of the stomach discharge only to be instantly and irrevocably blasted from its state of matter. 

	Their positioning in front of the Orc Cave served to the acoustic detriment of those nearby as secondary waves of sound echoed within and grew in depth, lowering and fracturing the original abdominal bray into a thing of demented imagination and projecting it back out into the surrounding woodland. It bore the efforts of a sadistic backup singer dripping with dark, frabjous glee, anticipating joyous discomfort it could inflict on something warm and soft. The belch continued unabated, now seemingly with help. 

	Keystone nodded to his sorcerer companion despite the blaring, continued act of gastric exodus. Staring fully at the man, he allowed the warm caress of his eye-watering gutsplosion to envelop the assembled gentry (if such a term were applicable) in a final push to fully vacate the carbonic acid gas from his torso. The terminal emission (and I do mean terminal) grew to a reluctant crescendo, flaring in nose breaking intensity with accompanying increase in pitch. It cut off abruptly; far more abruptly than it began. 

	The echo from the cave could be heard for an additional second or two. Keystone took this opportunity to suck in a sharp breath of air. Without batting an eyelash or waiting for reaction, he spoke plainly, and with simple words:

	[color=b8860b]"Road's that way. Let's get a move on."[/color] He immediately turned and trudged in the direction of the departing wagon. It was time to go back to Salarn.