[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, Scullery Crew[/center][/b]

The alteration of sulphurous yolks into a burnable form was a very simple process, if one knew how. Carefully, Keystone cracked the eggs and strained the yolks away from the whites. Proper applications of heat and agitation combined with a couple kitchen staples yielded a pale yellow, chalky paste in very short order. Another moment of preparation had a half dozen ceramic ramekins loaded with one good-sized oven coal each and a spoonful of yolk paste, evenly arrayed on a large serving platter with a covered plate in the center. As he exited the kitchen, he called back to the scullions still inside, [color=b8860b]"Many thanks, you. You might want to throw a bit of sage and some winter mint in with that roast, but very nice, anyways."[/color]

Deftly, Keystone walked around the common room, placing the smoking ramekins evenly about the area. The smell of vinegar and burning egg yolk cut through the air, quickly overtaking the more pungent (and vorpal) odor of The Asspocalypse. The odor, while not the most pleasant in the world, was without doubt preferable to the environment of five minutes prior. 

The last ramekin was reserved for the upstairs, or more appropriately put, The Source. Keystone deposited it in a safe spot and returned downstairs, only the covered plate remaining on the serving tray. This was reserved for the proprietor, still recovering from a vomitous heave almost as epic as the arseblast which caused it. 

[color=b8860b]"Right then, Squire. Problem seen to, per request."[/color] began Keystone, his underclass accent prominent in his speech, [color=b8860b]"If'n you'll pardon my assumin', sir, you're going to get proper hungry in a minute or three. I've got you set up here with somethin' that'll sit heavy and gentle."[/color] 

For just a second or two, Keystone removed the plate cover. Still venting savory steam, therein waited thick slices of toast with butter and clotted cream, a cheesy egg white omelette garnished with young celery leaves, and syrupy, sliced peaches. It was an amount suitable to a man of Keystone's size; it should fill the belly of a Gnome sufficiently and to spare. 

[color=b8860b]"Now, I'm off to that temple one of your serving girls told me about. Yellow Rose, or some such? Maybe I can pick up some incense there, what can chase out the last of the sulphur. By your leave, sir."[/color] 

Keystone balled his hands into fists and tapped his knuckles together lightly while giving a curt bow. It looked like a motion practiced thousands of times, part of a point of discipline foreign to not only the culture in which the errant pugilist found himself in then, but his own culture as well. 

Without further ado, Keystone made his way toward the Yellow Rose temple, directions gathered from the barmaid earlier in the evening.