[center][h3][b][i][color=b8860b]Johnathon Keystone[/color][/i][/b][/h3][/center]
[b][center][color=b8860b]Location:[/color] Arriving at Salarn - Crossed Swords Inn & Tavern[/center][/b][b][center][color=b8860b]Interacting With:[/color] Militia, Barmaids[/center][/b]

A silhouette came into view, steadily trudging toward the southern gate to Salarn in the dying light of the evening. A tall, broad silhouette, walking with solid steps ever closer to the assembled militiamen guarding the one remaining ingress to the town proper. Each footfall packed the earth beneath it down with a wet, gravelly crunch; a heraldic drum beat, signalling an event to come, simultaneously too rapid for comfort yet slow enough to build maddenning anxiety. 

The figure walked alone, never speaking, never straying from its beeline to Salarn. A feeling of ominous weight fell upon the ramshackle guards of the evening's watch. The figure was close enough now to discern some detail; it was respectably large, most likely male, wearing a hooded long coat of crafted hide, tooled and segmented into cunning armor. A bulky travelers pack hung from the stranger's back, swaying gently to the cadence sounded by his  thick black boots all the while. The man carried no obvious weaponry. As an observational irony, this fact seemed to make him more daunting, rather than less. 

The stranger was almost on top of them now - he stood at least a head taller then any of the men assembled in stalwart defense of their town, possibly a foot broader. The militiamen stood at shaky attention, determined to halt the progress of their latest arrival.  

"You.." the watch sergeant chirped, before regaining composure fully, "You there! State your business in Salarn! Quick about it!" 

The open hood of the man swiveled toward the voice, and issued a bass, noncommittal response, [color=b8860b]"Hungry."[/color] before parting open the hem of his coat to administer a much wanted, in depth scratching session to his posterior. 

He stepped forward. The guards fell back a step in response, but had the presence of mind to grab for their weapons, irregular in issue. Obviously, these men were not satisfied with his response. The large man sighed loudly and pulled back his hood. The results, to the chagrin of the militiamen gathered, were no less intimidating. 

It was a man, after all. Scarred, possessed of close-cropped dark hair and about a week of unapologetic facial stubble. Scars intersected at various points of his blocky features; features which now showed a scowl of impatience and steel-grey eyes. 

[color=b8860b]"Bloody 'ell is this bronzecockery about, then?"[/color] he growled in a decidedly urban underclass accent.

For a moment, the stranger considered the effort it would take to shake the watch sergeant unconscious, then use him as a flail to beat the rest of his men into submission. Possibly afterward, he'd sit on the bastard's head until he woke, and open the vaporous contents of his lower intestine to blast the man back to blessed sleep with styxian ass-air. The consideration was fleeting; such an action would be ultimately counterproductive. No, he would have to use his practically non-existant people skills here. 

[color=b8860b]"Name of Keystone. I'm fresh out of a conflict 'gainst an army of the dead, some many leagues east of here. I need ale, food, and rest, [i]in that order[/i], and you're standing between me and it. 'xcuse."[/color] 

While not the most eloquent of speeches, it served well enough to gain him unchallenged entrance. A few steps inward, he strained his ears to catch any snatch of conversation that would point him in the right direction. After a short while, he found that he was headed in the right direction anyway; straight north to the center of town. The hub of activity. the place where he could bet a tankard of something bitter-sour and foamy, maybe some food. 

His pace quickened. Now that Keystone knew where to go, the fun lay in getting there. From a distance, he spotted the sign of the Crossed Swords, and heard the merriment coming from within. This was his kind of place. 

Before entering, something caught his eye. A glimmer on the edge of his visual perception, something incidental he had been looking for. A general goods store. He jogged in, lightened his coinpurse just a bit, and exited with two ledger-style books, blank, and appropriate writing materials. Many things in time of war get bought out or confiscated. Luckily for him, tools of literacy are rarely among them. 

Keystone returned to the Crossed Swords, ever so slightly more optimistic about this hamlet, and found an unoccupied seat at the bar. The proprietor seemed a touch busy being boisterous and charming, so the large man caught eyes with a nearby serving lady, and beckoned her over. 

[color=b8860b]"Evening, miss. I'm needing something stout and hoppy in a large mug, and keep 'em coming. If you lot've got anything ready to eat in back, I'd be much appreciative.[/color]

The barmaid returned quickly with the ale, promising a short wait on food, and moved to attend other customers. An afterthought struck the burly fighter, prompting him to call after his alehouse hostess, [color=b8860b]"Ey, Miss! I thought I heard chatter about a Temple on m'way in. Any Monk-folk about, as you're knowing?"[/color]