[center][h3][b][i][color=b8860b]Keystone[/color][/i][/b][/h3][/center]
[b][center][color=b8860b]Location:[/color] Yellow Rose Temple, Crossed Swords Inn & Tavern[/center][/b][b][center][color=b8860b]Interacting With:[/color] Persephone, Militia, Anyone still awake at the Crossed Swords[/center][/b]

The sizable pugilist stepped into the brisk air outside of the Yellow Rose Temple, bowing his head respectfully until the door swung closed behind them. He looked to his companion, Persephone, and offered her his arm. A bit stuffy a gesture, out here on the borderlands. Presumptuous, one might say, were they unfamiliar with Keystone's more protective nature. He eyeballed the militiamen present just outside of the Temple until they parted before him, allowing unrestricted egress from the area. 

[color=b8860b]"C'mon then, Miss Sephy,"[/color] he began, speaking in a manner both formal and casual, as a potential suitor or servant might, [color=b8860b]"Let's get back to the Inn. I'll buy us an ale and we can talk about 'rangements, ey?"[/color]

Keystone's breath fogged slightly in the evening's steadily dropping temperature. His heavy bootfalls crunched into the gravel and tight packed, dry leaves of the season with the solid regularity of a man unconcerned with trivialities like stealth. As the large man walked, his sensed tried to attune to his surroundings, mindful of the fact that the area was technically at war. Still, his thoughts skipped to the near future; tomorrow, and what oddness may come of it. 

If the more memorable guests of the Crossed Swords were any indication, this little side venture as a merchant guard would see him keeping to himself, mostly, until it was time to fight. It was doubtful that he would be put in any position of authority within their team; most people in this area had never heard of J. Keystone, Pugilist, despite his colorful and often dramatic history. It was very possible that he could skirt by as "the Big Guy That Hits Stuff", collect his pay, and move on to the next learning experience. 

Still, guarding a merchant caravan was a tricky thing: It formed a staple of income for many fighter-types. Honest enough work if you can get it, sometimes even profitable, depending upon the merchant and the goods being hauled. Often enough, it was one of those mundane undertakings that suddenly and inexorably drew you into something bigger, with more intrigue. A whirlpool, pulling you into an ever-tightening circle of a totally unforeseen series of events, threatening to capsize and slam your carcass into the rocks.

After the year he'd had so far, the chances that would happen [i]again[/i] were remote. Astronomical, really. 

Within the Inn, things seemed quiet. Only a couple of patrons remained in the common room, despite the evening not being that far along. Perhaps the tense nature of the border skirmish had everyone calling the frivolity to a close early. Perhaps it was the Four-Alarm Arseplosion from before that led to a mass migration elsewhere. Or both. Of the few that remained, there was a mixed-blood orc curled up in front of the low, crackling fire with a familiar wolf, a lady Elf he didn't remember seeing from before looking quite out of place in these surroundings, and the pretty-seeming man with the smile he didn't quite trust. 

Keystone turned his head slightly toward Persephone, and in a quiet voice (for him) intoned, [color=b8860b]"Rain check on that ale, then. Looks as they're shutting down."[/color] He thought for a moment, and said aloud, [color=b8860b]"I'll be taking a nightcap in my room, 'fore I turn in. Knock if'n you need me for anything."[/color]

He glanced to the few remaining in the common room and moved to the stairs, quietly making his way to his private rooms. A sip of something to cap off the evening, and very possibly the last real sleep he'd get for quite a while.