[center][h3][b][i][color=b8860b]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] Sundos, Cremwise, Others [/center][/b]

The return of the Lathander's Chosen, or more specifically the grandiose recitation of prayer tailored to their situation in stunningly arduous detail, caught Keystone rather unexpectedly. He had speared a whole sausage perpendicularly near its center with a nearby fork he really hoped was set there at his disposal (place settings were a bit of a mystery to the broad fellow), and was nearing the end of transporting it to his mouth when the blast of religion began. 

Confusion spread across his face as he sat, mouth agape, brandishing a properly roasted chub of skewered forcemeat in a mammoth fist. Slowly, incrementally, as the young Cleric rattled off all of the things and people he dearly wished would receive the blessings of his deity, Keystone turned his head to set his eyes on him. Was he being serious with this? Worse, were they to expect this every time they ate? 

Without the presence of mind to close his mouth, Keystone listened, expecting the benediction to come to logical conclusion at the end of every sentence. It did not. The glory of Lathander apparently needed to be intoned to every rock, bird, and tree in a five mile radius; every time a new blessing was sounded an acute spike of depression lanced through the veteran pugilist; a tiny death, a thing which seemed to suck the very blood of time away, a missed opportunity to continue breakfast. 

What passed for politeness in Keystone's mind prevented him from interrupting the vocalization of the armored man's beliefs. For whatever reason, it also prevented him from taking a bite from his sausage, the porcine cylinder of fat and flesh suspended before him. He had given thought to indulging after the seventh or eighth point of the prayer, but temperance overwhelmed his more pragmatic feelings of hunger. 

So there he sat, mouth halfway open, sausage in hand, staring at the priest; hoping that no one would notice and make jokes.  

Finally, thanks to the steadily linear progression of time, the end came. Wasting no piece of the opportunity, Keystone attacked his breakfast lest someone else tried to vocalize a theological counterpoint. The food was actually quite good. Nothing particularly special, mind you, nothing to write about in his journal; but it was good, plain, unambitious and comfortable rural fare. 

While dining (a very loose term for what he was doing to his meal), he paid very close attention to the answers Cremwise gave him in response to his pre-invocation queries. This was to be a no bells, no whistles escort run; period, end story. In that moment, Keystone was glad he generally packed heavy with food in mind. His own provisions were almost always of better quality than that which merchant guard was stuck with. Plus, he had plenty to share with a couple more that were without, if need be. On the other hand, a lack of reimbursement meant that he would have to prioritize his equipment. Hold back on throwing his knives somewhat, give thought to the defense of his pack, etc. 

After his plate was made barren, Keystone rose from his seat and walked around the table to Cremwise and his columns of silver coinage. He grabbed a stack, and began counting as he spoke in low, even tones.

[color=b8860b]"Never said I needed a leader, Cremmy. Just seein' if you were gonna push one on us."[/color] 

He finished his appraisal of the first cut of salary and followed up, [color=b8860b]"I've a good eye for folk what can fight. Learned it sizin' up buggers in the ring. This lot'll give you your money's worth."[/color] He thought for a second, [color=b8860b]"Most of 'em, anyways."[/color] 

[color=b8860b]"Well,"[/color] he announced to no one in particular, [color=b8860b]"Let's get it movin', then."[/color]