There was nothing they could have done, even if they were front row and center to the coming terror. It didn’t matter. This was why the guards were a flurry of activity, and then simply gone. Perhaps they were in the ranks of the fallen, clawing their way to surround the tower the two of them had just finished looting. The key observation here being [i]surround[/i]. There seemed no means of egress. This was dying ground. 

From the ranks of corpses came a single knightish figure, promising oblivion if he were lucky, and servitude in a carcass husk otherwise. For the first time in what seemed an eternity, an emotion held every corner of himself, caressed the core of his identity. 

Fear. 

Palpable and real, threatening to overwhelm. It’s a strange thing, fear. It destroys you. Makes you weak. Takes away your will. Simultaneously a thing which keeps you alive and removes hope. 

Fear also strips away everything about you that is false, leaving a naked and transparent view into the psyche. It makes the unobvious plain and true. Keystone faced the certainty of his own demise, and the realization was chilling. For all of his bluster and bravado, claims of professionalism and codes of honor, in that moment he knew in his soul that they were lies. He had broken promises without regret, told untruths about himself for the prospect of employment doing what he did best. He told others, and told himself the same lies until everyone believed them, including himself. 

It seemed trivial at this juncture, foolish even. But if he stood right then, face to un-face with the creature destined to separate him from this world, he needed to go out with a clear conscience. Hell, it may even be a downright honorable way to go. He’d seen people die in worse ways. He’d [i]made[/i] people die in worse ways. Fear made him honest with himself and set him free to be that person, if only for a last few, precious moments. 

Keystone was no mercenary, at least not of any experience. He was no hero, either. He was a talented and hardened pugilist, plain and simple. He was a tavern bouncer. A pit brawler, though masterful at his craft. He was a tall pile of muscle and sarcasm. He was Johnathon [i]Fucking[/i] Keystone, protector of the common man, warrior of the slums, beater of wholesale arse. We probably wasn’t such a good man, but he had done good things for others. Knowing this, really knowing this, opened him up to so much more. Honest pride in his accomplishments, even though they were nothing epic. Bards wouldn’t sing this man’s praises after his passing, but the odd courtesan made safe by his actions may light a candle for him. Drinks would be raised to remember the man, certainly. And this was good enough. [i]He[/i] was good enough. He had never felt more in touch with himself, or the earth beneath his feet, than he did in that moment. 

He was a Bouncer. And Bouncers chased out the riffraff. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know no’one name of Kaylee there, Sunshine.”

 It wasn’t a lie. He glanced over to the Paladin, to see his comrade surveying the field for advantage. No way out, back to the building seemed as good as any option. Keystone stuck his hands in his pockets, and pulled out two huge sets of brass knuckles, mottled and engraved with runes of presently unknown origin. They seemed to compliment his new bracers well, he realized before continuing, 

“You’re causin’ a disturbance, sir. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to sod off.”