[hr][hr][center][h3][b][i][color=b8860b]Keystone[/color][/i][/b][/h3][/center]
[b][center][color=b8860b]Location:[/color] Road North of Salarn, Day Two[/center][/b][b][center][color=b8860b]Interacting With:[/color] Sana, Cyneburg, Malkus [/center][/b][hr][hr]

	[i][color=b8860b]Why the arse are we still talking? Building on fire![/color][/i] thought Keystone, hefting his pots and passing them out quickly to any who were around. Though there wasn't an endless supply of cookware, three or so good ones might suffice for his needs. 

	He noted the appearance of magic on the scene, and was dead set on doing nothing about it. He wasn't a huge fan in the first place. Granted, he had seen magic channeled as a useful tool by people he had come to trust, and he even carried a bit of minor magic on his person. But it came back to trust. If he wasn't confident in the motivations of the comparatively few souls in the realm that had the spark of arcane manipulation, then he wanted little to do with the effects of their spellcraft. Were he asked to handle a situation involving a magely type, he would likely advise simple and direct violence. It might not be the best course of action in this instance. Lucky for him, there were those in the group who had a better understanding of magic than he. 

	This level of disdain made him feel just a skosh like a hypocrite when Sana presented him with the oversized cloak. He remembered the Hellhound. He remembered being set on fire when he struck the killing blow, and having to ditch the long, black woolen coat he was wearing before it fully engulfed him in infernal fire. His mother gave him that coat, one of the last things she did before her passing. All he had left of it was a pocketful of brass buttons. Keystone was aware of the properties of Hellhound blood and the magical process by which said properties can be transferred to an individual wearing an item treated with it. He accepted the article of clothing with measured gratitude. 

	Yeah. Keystone felt like a hypocrite. But now, he had a better chance of staying alive long enough to get over it. He hastily threw on the cloak and recovered his pot. Motioning for others to follow, Keystone scooped up its capacity of rainwater and mud from the ground, and ran into the woods to the burning building.  

	The second he entered, Keystone was highly surprised to see someone else slumped on the floor. He couldn't tell if the hapless fellow was alive or dead, unconscious or merely feeling sorry for himself. [color=b8860b]"What in bloody, piss-'emorrhaging 'ell is this then, eh?"[/color] he bellowed, his urban underclass accent flaring as he spoke. Keystone shook his head and splatted his pot of watery sludge on one of the support beams, still licking flame. The hiss and bubble of the cooling wood was satisfying, but it wasn't enough. 

	Keystone turned back to the slumped form with the flute laying beside him. He sighed heavily. If he were smart, he'd leave the guy there and keep working fire. If he were kind, he would focus his energies on seeing to the well being of the horizontal man in front of him. Instead, he worked out a compromise. Empty pot in his left hand, the burly man picked up his half-human cargo by grasping belt and bandoleer in his right. He began to spin, seemingly using the pot as a counterbalance to the weight of the person, despite the highly improbable physics involved. After two such revolutions, Keystone let go, hurling the poor bastard out of the open door and into the weather outside. 

	He skipped like a stone, such was the trajectory of his body as it descended to the watery ground below, and came to a sloshing rest near an ash tree a few meters away. Keystone ran back to the doorway, sucking in a lungful of cleaner air, and passed off his empty pot for the one in the hands of the person behind him. 

	[color=b8860b]"Right! Keep'em comin'!"[/color]

	The second splat was even more satisfying than the first.