[center][h3][b][i][color=b8860b]Johnathon Keystone[/color][/i][/b][/h3][/center]
[b][center][color=b8860b]Location:[/color] Crossed Swords Inn & Tavern[/center][/b][b][center][color=b8860b]Interacting With:[/color] Venua, Thelin, and a Very Confused Fly[/center][/b]

It kept flying around his head. Irritating. Threatening to land in his drink. He had noticed it earlier, as he neared the bar, but discussion of finances with Femnal drove the matter from his brain. Nonetheless, it was back again. Keystone noticed, and waved it away again. 

He regarded the drink plopped down before him; a good sized tankard of ale replacing his silver coin. The solid brawler took a sip, giving thought to the quality. Not bad, granted, but if that gnome was chiseler enough to think that it was worth an entire argent coin, he was soon for a lesson in percussive etiquette. He took a deep drink, letting the flavor linger for a second before allowing the tangy liquid access to his internals, proper. As he set the tankard back down, that damnedable fly zipped between his face and the beverage. 

He growled, with a very quiet rumble, [color=b8860b]"...little bugger must pay..."[/color]

From the corner of his eye, he gave note to another gnome in the common room, next to an open window. This one glowing faintly in the softer light of the tavern. Keystone squinted his eyes and looked back to his tankard. Satisfied that he was, in fact, not addled by drink, he gave a sideways glare at the diminutive cantrip-maker until the gnome took notice. Keystone arched an eyebrow and nodded slowly. 

Wizards. Never could tell with those types. 

Attention back to his ale gave Keystone another bout of irritation. That same fly, or another that the original fly delivered a dare to, was crawling on the edge of his mug. He sighed and waved it away, AGAIN, and took another sip, this time looking down the bar at the patrons nearby. 

Keystone's attention was caught by a rather interesting looking lady sitting alone at the bar. Covered in untanned hides and blue paint, she seemed the wilderness equivalent to his urban slum upbringing. Engaging her with a clumsy pickup line, after the evening's prior events, was far from his intent just then; he merely wished to take stock of the people around him. Before she caught his gaze lingering longer than was polite, the massive pugilist raised his tankard slightly, and began, [color=b8860b]"Cheer..."[/color]

And that's when it happened. The final straw. That little bastard fly landed right on the stubble around his upper lip, hoping to sample a fleck of hoppy ale-foam still clinging there. Keystone had taken enough guff from that miserable, bescombering pest. 

Flatly, he set down his drink and closed off one nostril with a thumb. His powerful lungs drew a sharp inhale, sucking the offending insect into his nose with a sound not unlike pulling free a boot held fast in deep mud. A growling, lung-buttery hack later, the fly found itself propelled through the air in a gob of spittle and rage, splatting heavily on the wall nearby. 

In a flash, Keystone had freed his great, bone-handled knife from his belt and hurled it after the bug-loogie. It struck heavily, sinking into the wood with a vibrating thunk. 

The fly, guilty of nothing except for being a fly, felt somewhat violated by the whole ordeal. The big knife came very near to ending its tiny life, but didn't quite catch its intended target. Carefully, the traumatized bug unstuck itself from its expectorant binding, landing gracelessly on the knife blade below. It drunkenly flew off as Keystone moved to recover his blade, content to leave the man alone. 

With some satisfaction, Keystone returned to his ale, raised the tankard to the Woaded Warrior Woman again, this time completing his polite(ish) intonation of, [color=b8860b]"Cheers, Miss."[/color]

It's the little, everyday victories you have to embrace.