[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]Cremwise, Cyneburg, Calanon[/center][/b]

	The brash and straightforward Pugilist pulled back his hood and ran his fingers through shortish hair, batting an amount of accumulating rain from it in a futile attempt at keeping water from running down his face. He twisted his pinky into an ear, diverting a drop or two from getting too far inside, and re-raised the hood of his armor-quality hide coat. Protective [i]and[/i] practical. 

	For a brief moment, he missed his last coat. It was a mid-length black item made of thick wool with dull, brass buttons. Functional, but not exceptional in quality, it was still an item generally too expensive for a man of his background to afford through normal means. As it turns out, the urban laborer's coat was a gift from his mother, purchased with savings from monies Keystone actually sent back home, early on in his career as a bareknuckle prize fighter. It was the last gift he would receive from her, before her passing. 

	Regretfully, both it and he caught on fire, after hammering the (assisted) killing blow into a very large Hellhound; the eruption of bioinfernal flame teaching him very valuable lessons in both the nature of lower planar creatures and critical procedures in treating burns wounds on a budget. Keystone flexed his right hand, mostly covered by a fingerless glove. 

	Aside from scarring, Keystone retained the buttons from his coat a small amount of preserved Hellhound blood as souvenirs. 

	Memory lane sufficiently traveled, Keystone assisted Cremwise in leading the horse and wagon back onto the road. [color=darkgoldenrod]"Alright, you lot. Come if you're comin'. If'n you're with, you're here to help guard. Otherwise, make with the sodding off, [i]nowish[/i]."[/color]

	When he was reasonably sure that no one else was following (yet), Keystone slowed his pace to allow one of their newer companions, Cyneburg, to catch up with him. She had asked a him a question earlier that was interrupted by circumstances. If memory served, it was [color=#17c311]"Excuse me, but what exactly did you mean by 'my lot doing their business in the woods?'"[/color]

	Keystone addressed it with as much of his genteel nature as he could muster despite his underclass accent practically singing. [color=darkgoldenrod]"Yah, 'bout that... It's a 'spression, y'see, meanin' certainty. Havin' never been in spots where I could hold down words with a bear on the issue, I'm figurin' you're the next best, get me?"[/color] The broad man cleared his throat, continuing, [color=darkgoldenrod]"I do 'ate turnin' a phrase all sidewaysey. So, Sometimes-Bear, you lot shit in the woods, or is it just an 'orrible rumor started by folk in Team Squirrel?"[/color]

	A sudden nagging feeling struck Keystone. He perked his head up, stopping his walk forward altogether. Turning to meet their most recent tagalong, he stopped directly in his path and folded his arms in a faux casual stance. [color=darkgoldenrod]"Somethin' bothers me, chum. You ain't told a one of us who you are, nor why you're in the middle of a warzone in the first. 'Fore you or me take a step townward, we're havin' a meet'n'greet. Name of Keystone. I hit things. Me 'n mine're making sure Cremmy's wares get where they're goin'. You are?"[/color]