[hr][hr][center][h3][b][i][color=b8860b]Keystone[/color][/i][/b][/h3][/center]
[b][center][color=b8860b]Location:[/color] Storehouse, Road North of Salarn, Day Three [/center][/b][b][center][color=b8860b]Interacting With:[/color] The Medieval X-Men [/center][/b][hr][hr]

	It was still raining outside, but at least he could say that it was raining [i]outside[/i] and not on top of him. Food and rest had done well for his morale, and so a more robustly optimistic Keystone rose from his position near the hearth and gave himself a glorious morning stretch. 

	True sleep was a thing which Keystone avoided recently. Instead, he preferred to take his rest by means of cognitive meditation. It was a practice very foreign to his initial upbringing; likewise to his primary training in the pugilistic arts. The ability to forego sleep by force of will alone yet still recover his vigor was one of the most useful techniques he had acquired during his travels. Keystone often wondered how his people back home would take to his new learning. The few times he had returned in recent years, he hadn't really shared anything with the small handful of people he considered friends. 

	There was one confidant with whom he would talk, whenever fate allowed for his return to the great, walled city that shaped his early years. Her name was Magdalyn, but everyone just called her Mags. She was a fine lady, so long as the term "Lady" was used with heavy seasoning, and kept up Keystone's house in his absence. Her history was... well, far from praiseworthy, from a legal standpoint. But the massive brawler trusted her, and she had not broken that trust as of yet. Particularly considering her history, it was something near miraculous that their relationship was platonic. Very much like siblings, point of fact. Even so, he had not divulged the extent to his martial studies to her. 

	Keystone brushed himself off and pulled on his heavy hide coat. It was a marvelous piece of leatherwork, rustic yet refined, segmented armor yet functional clothing. He buckled it on and turned to gather his supplies. The large man was anxious to put some miles behind him. 

	The pots outside were filled with good, clean rainwater. The weather gave a blessing that way. For the third or fourth time, Keystone poured its contents into the party's waterskins and canteens (the ones that gave him permission, anyway). When everything was topped off, he drank as much as he could and discarded the rest. If they required more, it was still raining. He had his cookware. After a quick and cold breakfast consisting primarily of what they had for supper the previous night, he secured his pack on the wagon and stepped outside. It was time to seek a touch of privacy. 

	Keystone took a circular path around the storehouse, looking for any signs of unknown guests. While not a tracker, he could spot the obvious, were it present. Satisfied to the extent that his marginal skills allowed, he found a tree to lean against and dropped trou. Facing the tree, he braced against it with one hand and held his coat away from the danger with the other as he cannoned out the forcemeat and roughage that consisted of his diet with a low, foghornesque sound not unlike the death throes of  bull moose. Overall, he was dissatisfied with the performance; it was not up to his personal standards of arseblastery, regardless of the nigh mythic properties possessed therein when compared to similar actions of mere mortals. A sigh, shrug, and seven poplar leaves later, he rejoined the group. 

	Cremwise, amongst others, stared at him with mute disbelief. Apparently ignoring the eyes boring into him, Keystone took the last few swallows of cold tea from the night before, gave his employer a rude, two-fingered gesture, and stood at the ready near the wagon. From his position, he looked at the altered group. They now had three archer women present, one of which with whom he'd been previously acquainted. What the hell was Sana doing here? This was a discussion that had to transpire with a note of privacy. He didn't know whether her (or his) history of realm-hopping was common knowledge. 

	Instead, he looked to the addition from the previous night. [color=b8860b]"Ey there, Gretchin. Needin' an assist? You're lookin' a might shaky this mornin'. Mayhap you ought grab some breakfast while it's still un-ate, eh? Bit left by the hearth."[/color]