[hr][hr][center][h3][b][i][color=b8860b]Keystone[/color][/i][/b][/h3][/center]
[b][center][color=b8860b]Location:[/color] Road North of Salarn, Early Afternoon of Day Three [/center][/b][b][center][color=b8860b]Interacting With: [/color] His Team [/center][/b][hr][hr]

	There was a certain focusing feeling, knowing that one walks forward to the inevitable. Like a mix of being totally free yet utterly screwed, all at the same time. It seemed a eternity since he had arrived in the area, dealing with the fun and open people of Salarn (sarcasm intended). It had only been four days, but it felt like months. He recalled the first complete sentence he had spoken to the militiamen at the ramshackle defenses of the beleaguered township, aside from his initial indication that he was seeking a spot in town because he was, to quote himself, [color=b8860b]"Hungry."[/color] No, it was his more serious statement that flooded to mind just then, from a half-week prior, when questioned about his business: 

	[color=b8860b]"Name of Keystone. I'm fresh out of a conflict 'gainst an army of the dead, some many leagues east of here. I need ale, food, and rest, [i]in that order[/i], and you're standing between me and it. 'xcuse."[/color] 

	Keystone had traveled for a long while before that, rarely speaking during that time. It was a fine time for weighty introspection, mulling over the lessons learned and friends lost during his last foray into battling the animated dead and their invariably abhorrent masters, some of which were, themselves, no longer among the living. Whether he liked it or not, he had become a skilled combatant against them. It was not the route he had intended to take when he set out on his journey, years ago. Involuntary, more than anything else - just woke up, circumstances flinging him against dead things like a battering ram. 

	And here he was again. Keystone was hoping to take a more circular route home, but this... par for the course, really. A simple bread-and-butter job as a merchant's guard turned sideways, as it tends to do when you're Keystone. 

	Sighing dejectedly at this new turn of events with the Orc, Brezcar, and his team of slightly cheesed off brethren, Keystone shouldered his massive pack. He recovered his large, covered, cast iron roasting pan, still heavy with tea-and-spirits roasted bird. A mote of forethought saw him ripping away a large scrap of cloth from the partially disarticulated wagon and cramming it into his belt. If this is where the Powers That Be are sending him, fine. Upon the hour of his death, Keystone would have a few choice angry (and largely unintelligible by polite society) words for said Powers. At least his people wouldn't be hungry in the meantime. 

	The scarred brawler fell into step with the mixed procession, speeding up or slowing down as needed to rub elbows with others in the group he set out with that morning. With each, he raised the lid to his pan, offering them a piece of the proficiently roasted animal. It wasn't the full meal for which he had hoped, but it was something. Again with each of his people, he mumbled something quietly, to the effect of what he said earlier, [color=b8860b]"Stay together, stay whole, right? Rules o' this game's changed."[/color] 

	He handed a reserved drumstick up to Sana, on her horse. He said nothing, but locked eyes with her and glanced around the group, then returned to her with a raised eyebrow, expectantly.