[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] Cyneburg, Satilla, Downed attackers (dead and unconscious)[/center][/b]

While roughly cleaning and putting away his knives, Keystone listened to Cyneburg's chatter with the Orc, Five Thirty. He didn't speak Orc, never really cared to learn. But considering their greater situation (out in hostile territory in the middle of an Orc/Human war) he wished he had taken some time to learn at least a few phrases. At word that the last living/conscious adversary had agreed to surrender, Keystone decided to put his two coppers in. 

[color=b8860b]"Oi, ask that pisser wha..."[/color] Keystone paused for a second, his glance in Cyneburg's direction now a fully formed double-take. He stared at her more obvious features, telltale signs of her mixed blood. Keystone gave her a shrug, continuing, [color=b8860b]"Ask that pisser what assurance we got, him and his ain't followin' us to finish the job, eh?"[/color]

Keystone had not used lethal force, except on the one with the axe going after Cremwise. Granted, that Goblin might wish he was dead after he woke, not to mention speak in a glaring falsetto until the 'nad swelling went down, but he would live. If you call that living. After a few minutes, they would regain themselves and have a decision to make. The large man was not fond of executions. He had killed, granted, but he was no killer. Perhaps it was stupid, naive, what have you, but Keystone really hoped there was a third, feasible option. 

Well, regardless of their status (living or dead), the decision-torn Pugilist didn't want them armed or provisioned. Further, he had no desire for others to come across the scene and re-equip, before running full tilt up the road and stomping roughshod upon them as they slept. With this in mind, Keystone began looting the bodies. 

He started with the two he took out first; Alchemist and Monk types (Six and Six Fifteen). He had his eyes on the spikey gloves, his large hands the equal of most Orc's. Either as a weapon or souvenir, he didn't have anything Orc-craft in his Monkly equipment. While Keystone poured over their equipment, he heard a strange sound coming from Six. It sounded like the groan of a man waking with a colossal hangover, except it was pitched more like a Halfling child with its fingers caught in an oven door. 

With a stunning act of mercy, Keystone rolled the poor bastard to its side and delivered a quick jab to the base of its skull. It went ragdoll and lasped into silence yet again. 

[color=b8860b]"Right then, he'll be out a while. I recommend we see what these buggers've got, tie up the ones that're still suckin' air, and be on our merry."[/color]

As if an afterthought, [color=b8860b]"And um... White Lady?"[/color] he began, clearly forgetting Satilla's name, [color=b8860b]"If'n you have any more of that healin' left after the ones what're really bad off get theirs, I got some ouchies might need some attention, if ya would."[/color] 

It was true; ragged slashes opened the side of his head and part of his face, making him [i]even prettier[/i], there were holes in the side of his thick, hide coat, slowly oozing blood, and it looked like he was favoring his right hand, occasionally shaking his left as if it were numb and tingly. He wasn't in the best shape, not by far, but nothing was immediately life-threatening. Triage might put him on second tier. Regular drops of his blood fell upon the ground and more horizontal forms of his former adversaries, as he rummaged through their belongings for anything of note.