[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] The Ground [/center][/b][hr][hr]

	Keystone wasn't sure if what was going on was good or bad news, on the short term. Realizing that all of this was a force building tactic often employed by utilizers of the Undead, the broad man was fairly confident that long term consequences of this evening pointed squarely toward the negative end of the "Stuff That Could Happen" spectrum. But he couldn't react to [i]then[/i]. He could only react to [i]now[/i]. 

	Or could he? Red, swirly force of potential death above, ice formed around him, death raining down upon the Orcs not protected by a wall of ice... and where the ass was Kyra and Gretchin? Keystone took a glance over to Sana. She didn't look so great. The reflexive step in her direction that he meant to take was waylaid by the forces of greater thermal and fluid dynamics (not that he knew what to call it). The frost building up upon the ground seemed thickest directly near the wall, the very spot in which the occidental monk found himself when it formed up. Thick and fast enough to hold one of his boots to the ground around it, even before his feet registered the drop in temperature. 

	Like a man caught unawares by the shoelace-tying pranks of youth and/or immaturity, Keystone waved his arms around, impotently trying to maintain balance before hitting the ground like a sack of meat. At least his boot ripped free of the accumulating ice, but he was forced to spend any time he may have had doing something useful picking himself up from the frozen ground in an ungainly fashion. This was not how he hoped his evening would progress.