The rain woke Keystone. For one groggy moment, he didn't remember where he was. The resulting bolt upright motion culminated in a defensive stance, starting his morning with urgent, ragged breaths and a shot of adrenaline more sure and effective than urinating on an electrical ward. Sleep having been made the fool of by irrational defense mechanisms, it was definitely time to begin the day. 

After taking care of his more pressing morning constitutionals, Keystone stripped down to his pants and stepped out into the blinding rain. He ignored the presence of anyone else around him, and seemed to have quite forgotten the first half of his commission with Master Rocksteady, laying quietly on the stone counter. Something was bothering the large man, something intangible. Couldn't quite out a finger to it, though. Keystone needed to clear his head and get his bearings. 

His lack of shirt displayed an impressive, if somewhat gruesome history. Scars, mostly blade cuts and punctures, crisscrossed his bare form over mountainous expanses of sculpted muscle. If each reminder of wounds long past told a story, it was one to fill several volumes of bardic work. This man had obviously lived a horrifying life, and he was still young. To the trained eye, one may have noted that a few of his scars seemed more methodical - not the crazed slashes of combat, but the slower manipulations of torture. 

Slowly at first, he started his forms. To begin, his older training exercises; the more western movements common to the bareknuckle pugilists from which he took his origin. Series upon series of linking jabs, crosses, and uppercuts, interspersed with middle blocks, high redirections, and knee shots. Dancing footwork, the situational type of fighting used over and over by necessity, discarding what doesn't work and reinforcing what does, until a style emerged. Streetfighting and ringfighting blended into something lethal, passed down from many teachers over generations. 

The rain continued to hammer down upon him as he switched into a maintenance workout, using his bodyweight to strain targeted muscles in slow, nigh acrobatic movements. By the time Avar returned to his forge, Keystone was balanced on his knuckles, feet straight in the air, slowly pushing himself from the cobblestones beneath his fists and lowering his body back down with determined, arduous repetition. When he seemed to near the limits of human expectation, he kicked himself out of his latest masochistic exercise and onto his feet. 

The white noise of water slamming earthward did well to isolate Keystone in his own thoughts. Mulling over the past two weeks (that seemed like months and months), he tried to make sense of everything. There was an angle he was missing. He was like a child wandering into an adult conversation midway; he needed perspective. Keystone drove emotion out of his head and settled into another collection of forms, this one less occidental and more leg-based. His bare feet slapped down into the cold water flooding over the fitted stone as he moved from low to high stance, and back down again. His movements became more fluid, less prone to quick attacks and more toward flowing counterattacks and open hand strikes. 

Another round of grueling calisthenics down, and he was quite tired. A sudden flash of inspiration had him, and despite his previous effort he began the forms taught to him by Grandmaster Shein-Fang. Slowly at first, to cement the exact movements, and again at a forceful pace. Keystone meant to incorporate the teachings into his repertoire of fighting skills; possibly the real prize of his adventure along the Golden Way. 

Finally, he stopped. Keystone bowed his head and tapped his knuckles together in front of him, a ritualistic gesture if ever there were one, and trudged back to the forge. Saran had come and gone back inside by this time, and Keystone briefly entered the domicile to retrieve his steel mirror and one of his knives. He wandered back outside, careful to stay under what awning there was to afford some protection from the rain, raked his hair back, and raised his blade to his neck. 

Keystone tilted his head back, eyes transfixed upon his mirror, as he began to pass the blade across his darker beard stubble. Underneath the disappearing facial hair, there hid more scars. Scars, but a cleaner, more polished brawler. As needed, he stuck his knife out into the rain to rinse it, and in sort order he was fresh-faced, if a bit itchy. 

There was a distant look about him, as he looked over to Avar. While he worked, Keystone spoke in low, even tones. 

"I'd like to thank you, formally as I can, Master Smith. You've taken me into your home, and let's face it, I'm not exactly the trustworthy-looking type. I'm not sure what's going to happen in the near, but I'd like to count you among my friends. I ain't got a lot of 'em, but what few I count dear. I am at your service, if'n you need it, sir." 

Keystone's eyes wandered to the shiny, black metal. His eyes expressed childlike mirth, and a tired smile formed on his freshly shaven face. "Those look right painful, Rocksteady. Love the look, what're they made of? Hell, give me the guided tour, as it were. What're these beauties capable of?" 

Handling them reverently, Keystone slid them onto his large hands. He felt the weight of them as he tightened his fingers into fists, and nodded his satisfaction. Marveling at his new acquisition, he wondered aloud again, "What ARE these made of?"