[center][h3][b][i][color=b8860b]Keystone[/color][/i][/b][/h3][/center]
[b][center][color=b8860b]Location:[/color] Road North of Salarn, Camp[/center][/b][b][center][color=b8860b]Interacting With:[/color] Medieval X-Men, Cremwise, Cyneburg[/center][/b] 

[color=b8860b][i]Frig. Doublefrig.[/i][/color]

Yes, two separate frigs sounded in his mind; the first being the appearance of the group of armed and angry Orcs, the second being the swift injury of his teammates. No, this would not do. Adrenaline coursed through Keystone's blood, dilating pupils and energizing muscles, his senses sharpening in the face of very unpopular odds. 

Barely controlled rage colored his face, held back in a tenuous grip by the iron will of his training. His anger was a tool to be used at his discretion; it was not his master. Not anymore. 

Regardless, a growl escaped his lips as he opened himself to a portion of his fury, pointing it directly at the Orc with spiked gloves. If nothing else, he would challenge the creature most like himself in this brawl. Not that he gave a rats' hindparts about glorious, honorable combat; he might just have had something to prove. Besides, pugilists deserved pugilists, especially out here in the sticks and mud, away from their more urban environs. He nodded directly at his chosen opponent, and charged. 

Five quick strides powered the broad Human into melee range with Spikey Orc, the balls of his feet connecting with the soft earth beneath him. His arms raised into close, parallel lines in front of himself, fists halfway closed. A very occidental technique, familiar to most who spent any time near a warehouse fight or brawler's pit. He closed to strike what promised to be a powerful, crippling blow, moving his arms apart just a [i]little[/i] more for the balance necessary to flatten this supposed Orc Pugilist. 

It would have been a glorious hit. One that survivors of the skirmish (of both sides) would have talked about for many years to come. Sadly, it did not make connection. His intended target was no stranger to these techniques, and when the stalwart brawler came charging at him, he knew exactly how to counter it. An instant before Keystone got to him, the Orc stepped forward and turned to the side, launching a swift jab into the hole the prideful Human left in his defense. The opening Keystone left in his handwork was obvious; only an amateur would have been that stupid as to open himself up as such to end a fight quickly. His glove spikes would penetrate flesh and break out teeth. Hell, the bastard might even lose an eye. 

Except Keystone wasn't stupid. 

He fell to his knees, skidding feet forward in the mud. The Orc's jab thrust solidly into the area his face used to occupy, catching only air. The look of surprise on the face of the brawler Orc was priceless, but Keystone couldn't see it. He was already behind his would be dispatcher, going after his real target: The Goblin with the ceramic flask. 

Continuing to ride his momentum, he transferred the force of his movement into a rising uppercut. Stone-conditioned fist connected with Goblin crotch with the force of a charging stallion. The creature's four and a half foot frame immediately crumpled forward as its eyes crossed impossibly close; so close they started to rotate into its skull. The air was driven from the foul thing's lungs, so powerful was the pressure to its pelvis from the 'nad squishing powerfist, the noise issuing from the pitiable creature would remain in the collective racial memory of his people until the death of the age, and even longer in bardic tale. It was a horrible, twisting scream, part cry for help, but mostly a grievous and squeaky grovel to be released from this horrifying pain with the sweet gift of a quick and merciful parting of its soul from this earth. 

Animals capable of fleeing the forest, sensing the unnatural, guttural hell inflicted on the poor goblin, ran for their very lives. Nearby Fey folk, sophisticated and safe with their concealing magics, perched safe atop the higher branches of nearby trees in sacred and protected groves, witnessed the act via scrying inside their own space of earth and trees, exclaimed [color=FFDAB9]"Daaaaaaaaaamn!"[/color] and professed a lack of belief in a higher power after having witnessed such a spectacle. Some exchanged coins, wagers grudgingly settled. A brief conversation ensued concerning asking the possibly neutered Goblin if he would join the Dryad Boys Choir, owing to the newfound ability to hit notes so high as to elude even the most undeveloped Fey child's vocal limitations. 

It was a shuddering, screaming, whimpering breath - an exhalation of one who knew what it meant to truly be damned; the noise one may make, were they mercilessly rectally violated with a seven foot, red-hot iron cactus. Such was the suffering heaped upon this green and floundering bastard. But it didn't end there, oh no. It did not cease. 

The nearest Orcs stood in mute horror, faces screwed into incredulous visages of confusion and fear. Reflexively, many covered their own manly bits with their hands in sympathetic pain as their outies became innies, and at least temporarily, their testicles were purely ornamental in nature. All except for the one who took a swing at Keystone earlier, the one with the spiked gloves. He turned about just in time to see the Errant Pugilist snatch up his Goblin companion and wrap his thick arms around the still quivering 'nad obliteration victim. Keystone's back was partially to him. He wouldn't get a better chance to avenge his partner's danglies. 

The Orc stepped in close and hammered in a notable inverted fist strike, aimed at Keystone's kidney. The brawler noted the incoming attack and was able to twist his body just enough to make the connection in a area slightly less vital. The spikes of the Orc's massive fist were able to penetrate the tooled hide of Keystone's coat and enter his torso, scraping along his lowest rib but blissfully unable to dig deep enough to puncture a lung. The sheer force of the blow removed the air from his chest, and Keystone swore he could have heard a cracking sound that was either a seam in his leather breaking or some manner of osseous tissue at the fracturing point. Keystone spun around to avoid another such strike he likely could not mount a passable defense against, only to barely avoid a sweeping haymaker aimed at his skull. 

The spikes tore shallow furrows in from his cheekbone to his jawline. It was just torn skin, so far. As long as he could finish this before his energy wore down and most of his blood still moved within his body, he would be okay. Now, Keystone had stamina. No question. Blood, well, no more than the next guy his size. Keystone stepped out of swinging range of his opponent, letting the sleeper hold put to the Goblin silence him with a quiet gurgle. At least the screaming stopped. 

[color=b8860b]"Ey, Sunshine. You should kill me, or you should sodding [i]run[/i]."[/color] He dropped the Goblin into a heap, and stepped over it, intent on pummeling the Orc senseless. The Orc obviously had the same idea, licking his jagged teeth with a long, pointed tongue, fists raised, and closed in on Keystone. 

The two clashed, launching immediate, quick punches. Keystone and the Orc both evaded the first exchange, gauging each other's reflexes and comparative strength. It was all our Xiang trained protagonist needed. The Orc was not privy to training of proper footwork, compared to his strength training and fast hands. It was an overbalancing style, not completely unlike the first fighting method Keystone was exposed to. It had weaknesses when tested against a person of broader martial exposure. 

Keystone feinted a low attack, providing a high opening for the Orc to exploit. The expected attack was intercepted at the wrist and turned wide as a snap kick took the Orc's balance from him. Keystone followed up with a vicious palm-heel strike, knocking the creature back into a tree with force sufficient to knock the breath from its lungs. The brawler followed up with a jumping backfist, connecting at the temple. Bare fist hit skull, skull hit tree, and the semi-conscious Orc slid to the ground. 

The last experience that the Orc was able to register was a dark and heavy weight pressing its head to the ground, and a booming voice, muffled by what he really hoped wasn't the human's arse atop his ears, urgently asking, [color=b8860b]"[b]CAN YOU SMELL, WHAT THE 'STONE IS COOKIN'?!?[/b]"[/color] before an unknown force ripped into his face, stealing his life's breath and replacing it with horrifying, odoriferous darkness.