[hr][hr][center][h2][b][i][color=b8860b]Keystone[/color][/i][/b][/h2][/center]
[b][center][color=b8860b]Location:[/color] Woods North of Salarn, Orc Encampment, Evening of Day Three [/center][/b][b][center][color=b8860b]Interacting With: [/color] Inside of his Eyelids, Shit Happening [/center][/b][hr][hr]

	Sleep. Actual sleep. It had been since that night in Salarn, three days prior since he had gotten true sleep. Even before that, he had been on the road for weeks. He got little in the way of eyes-shut, random dreaming sleep, the kind where your eyes dart about and [i]really[/i] symbolic happenings occur deep within one's braincase. Or tiny clips of abject terror. Or just naughty things. 

	It was the point to Shou meditative techniques - allowing oneself to consciously process the lessons and events of the day, focus upon what needed dedicated thought, and let the rest sort out in the periphery. All the while, a skilled practitioner of meditative techniques could use the time to refresh both mentally and physically. Ordinarily, Keystone was indeed a skilled practitioner of this technique. But tonight was unique. 

	Prior to the screaming and the Orcish battle-cry and (gods forbid) the nefarious laughter off in the woods, the steadfast pugilist was snoring in a manner so absolute as to make lumberjacks, pulling mightily upon wide, toothy saws buried within the densest of trees, jealous beyond imagining at the breadth and depth of the throaty, ripping sounds emanating from behind the hard mask and stiff hood of his coat. Perhaps the garment even served to amplify in the direction it was facing. The reasons at that point were immaterial. Keystone was out, and bringing the man to rapt attention was going to take more than a paltry bloodcurdling scream and bellowing, naked Half-Orc. 

	His present dream state hovered around the very subject that kept him from entering meditations earlier: Sana. It was very boyish of him to be distracted by a pretty face while there were serious, in-the-now dangers in play. Even if he had prior acquaintance with her. Even if she seemingly followed him a generally insurmountable distance to give him something. Even if she was a resilient, assertive woman with a combative background and extensive, well earned scars like himself. The fact that he was impressed by her performance, both stage and battlefield, shouldn't have been enough to give him distraction and cause his lapse into unconsciousness, nor should it contribute to his inability realize that he needed to spring to life and begin doling out vigorous, twofisted attentions. 

	It was a good thing that Keystone had that half-mask covering his mouth. It was twisted into a sleepy but broad grin, hinting at dreams of a [i]most[/i] ribald nature. [color=b8860b]"...no no, love. [i]Of course[/i] I got feelings for ya. But quick... hide in the barn..."[/color]

	When the information filtering into his brain from the waking world became way too much to ignore, Keystone's eyes sprang open. They immediately narrowed, and a single hand came up just far enough to shield his eyes from the direct glow of the embered cooking fire, allowing him a better view of what lay beyond. When he figured it out, he really, really wished that he was still dreaming. He knew it. Absolutely knew it. This was the same hassle, all over again. 

	[color=b8860b]"Bloody hell."[/color] he enunciated, fully but with his distinct accent. [color=b8860b]"Sodding typical, this is."[/color] 

	Skeletons. And more, no doubt. Back on the clock, Keystone.