[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] Femnal, Kyra, Scullery Crew[/center][/b] Keystone acquired a look of concession as the Gnomish proprietor demanded that he adjourn to the kitchen to enact his plan for making the Inn habitable once again. [color=b8860b]"FINE. I'm on it, gimmie a minute."[/color] He noticed an element of distress in Femnal's face; one he had seen many times from bar patrons overwhelmed by more booze than their stomachs could handle in one sitting. Part pity, part curiosity kept him at the bar, despite the nonverbal cues he gave indicating that he would jump on it directly after chugging his drink. Despite the fact that Femnal's predicament was Keystone's fault, more or less, the stalwart pugilist did not appreciate anyone yelling at him and barking orders. Humiliation (an emotion he was aware of by reputation only) associated with losing control of one's innards in public would put a quick mend on any negative feelings he had at the situation. He needed but to stall, but for how long was anyone's guess. Keystone took an exaggerated drink from his ale, slowly gulping back the bubbly fermentation in one long pull, waiting. Biding his time. Luckily, it was short seconds before showtime. Keystone could see the face of the portly merchant outside the window, just as Femnal turned into a Screaming Fountain of Used Stew. Taking the brunt of Femnal's cone of wretch-induced stomach chum, the older man at least had the wit to keep from opening his mouth to call out in alarm. This feat earned him Keystone's respect, at least in part. The shock of an unexpected consequence at someone else's expense, especially when the expected result was already disastrously funny, froze Keystone mid-swallow. His brain was processing what was happening before him, but his body was held rigid by surprise, keeping him from exploding into laughter and falling on the floor like a sack of yowling cats. By the time the gurgling roar of Femnal's gut splattage rained heavily upon the walls and flooring of the establishment, oscillating his head as the torrent of vomit took control of his neck away from his cervical vertebrae, Keystone broke free of his initial shock. A wordless scream of unbridled glee escaped Keystone's throat, along with a misting of house ale. This was the event for which he had waited. Keystone's knees buckled. One hand caught the edge of the bar, keeping him more or less upright. He stopped laughing, or tried to, hoping to complete his swallow and catch a breath. The resulting failure sprayed ale foam from his nose. Keystone gave up, and let himself laugh for another second or two before regaining composure. He had a sulphur compound to administer, you see. It was then that the boisterous fighter was approached by a petite woman with whitish hair and a bow. He'd caught a glimpse or two of her since coming downstairs after "The Incident", but did not know her. The sense of familiarity with which she smacked the hardened hide of his coat (and admonished him for an act not fully his fault) rankled him somewhat. Keystone looked down at her, curious as to whether she was trying to start a fight or had mistaken him for a bigger brother. An archer woman presenting an attitude of mild superiority. He'd seen this before. Another archer, presumably a world away. Thinking about it amused him slightly. He was about to make mention of it when the ale he power-chugged a moment ago began churning in his stomach. A quiet murmuring at first, it built into a rumbling, bubbly backdraft as it expanded into his throat. Keystone's eyes widened in momentary alarm, turning his head at the last second to avoid expressing himself directly into the face of the bowmaiden. The resulting expulsion of stomach vapor and carbonic gas rolled out low and violent. Keystone's head rocked back slightly. His eyes watered and brows arched as the powerful, constant sound of a dozen lumbersaws cutting through a live, ball-gagged cow echoed partially in his sinus cavity. The blast, diverted to the bar beside him, opened a crack in a nearby wine glass. Its contents dripped slowly from within, very slowly pooling in a semicircle below. The belch ended as abruptly as it began. Completely ignoring the event, Keystone snapped his head back at Kyra and mentioned lightly, [color=b8860b]"You remind me of this Gypsy lady, y'know. Cheers."[/color] Without dramatic pause, Keystone returned his tankard to the bartop, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and strode purposefully to the kitchen door. From out in the common room, one could hear various yells and proclamations of the determined fisticuffy culinarian, things like, [color=b8860b]"You! Eggs! Now!"[/color] and [color=b8860b]"Bloody 'ell, did Kobolds teach you to cook?"[/color]. He yelled, he swore; mostly to keep from explaining his presence in a kitchen to which he was not attached, though he did mention that he had the owner's approval. Femnal was a bit busy at the moment, but Keystone was certain that he'd confirm later. He hoped, anyway. Considering the look of Femnal's condition, it would be a little bit before he could confirm much of anything.