He grabbed a lit candle from the desk nearby, and solidly thunked it down between the slender mage and himself. Turing about, he dropped trou and aimed his posterior toward the flickering flame, confident in his decision to commit to the action which was to follow. 

He summoned a foul wind from deep within himself, unclenching his innards with the muscular control of a practiced aesthetic. The first intestinal herald's horn blew, it's single bass note propelling a horror, birthed of road beef and dried fruit, upon the open flame. Slowly at first, as not to extinguish the precious fire, the staccato tearing sound was joined by a whoosh of flame growing into a vomitous inferno. This was his signal. 

Growling, eyes bulging, and summoning an inner reserve of stamina unseen in the Realms outside of bardic drama, Keystone pressed his brown vapourous gale, pouring on the magnitude of the blast until it became indistinguishable from an archmage's assault of desperation, immolating and rendering septic everything in its cone of destruction. The low pitched rectal scream of this Armageddon continued, the sound approximating the droning of an infernal mantra and the ripping of a hundred canvas sails with unerring yet terrible synchronization. Drops of horrible flaming fluid sprayed from the edges of the cone of fetid hell, catching ablaze the very stone of the walls and running down to the floor in thin, oily rivulets of corruption. Sweat beaded and poured down Keystone's face, the tang of liquid salt insinuating itself onto his tongue as his mouth stood agape, bellowing a wordless shout of dominance; a battle-cry of unnamed rage and potency. 

The desk was aflame. The scrolls were aflame. The shelves, and magical goods thereon were aflame, sending away sparks of eldritch energy. The mage was aflame, begging for the blessed relief of death. 

Keystone abruptly ended the cacophony of misery and catastrophic methane, lest the fire be taken within. Already the odor of singed nether-hair joined the swirl of olfactory belligerence, prompting an end to the ham-flapping fusillade in fear of the unbridled power consuming its creator. 

Pulling his pants back up with one hand, Keystone thrust his other fist skyward and proclaimed in a booming, demonic bass, surpassing in volume even the roar of the flames and shrieks of the dying, 

"I am Animus, God of All Things BESTIAL!"

***

He snapped back from his daydream, and shook his head slightly. Had it only been a second? That was odd... Despite the sudden flash of depravity, Keystone maintained his outward professionalism. Noting the monstrous figure in the shadows of the shelves, he continued speaking confidently - though took action as if he were speaking to a display of armed guards. 

"I have a dagger on my person, I would appreciate being identified." He flashed a quick smile and nodded slightly before continuing, "I'm getting it now." Keystone slowly and steadily brought his left hand behind him, where he had stuck the dagger into his belt earlier near his one of his own, mundane street cutters. He brought it back around, grasping it by the guard and sheath rather than the handle, and set it next to the two scrolls on Meriv's desk. "I am interested first in how much you would offer me for each of the scrolls, and the cost of identifying the blade, sir." 

Keystone decided to keep Reverin's ring under wraps for now, until he knew more about people's attitudes toward the wizard in this city. Unsure about the finer workings (or any workings, for that matter) of magic, he didn't want to be associated as either a man who works for, or had a hand in dispatching, such a wizard just yet. Such as it pained Keystone to admit to himself, he needed to find a mage he could get to know and trust. The "trust" part was important. 

He returned his hands to a clasped, neutral position, and tried to comport himself in his guardlike, professional demeanor, despite the images from his daydream blipping into his forethought. If he chuckled, all pretense of seriousness was done for. 

His thoughts turned to something embarrassing - What if Kaylee was privy to his lapse into fantasy? ...bugger...