[hr][hr][center][h2][b][i][color=b8860b]Keystone[/color][/i][/b][/h2][/center]
[b][center][color=b8860b]Location:[/color] Salarn Streets -> Crossed Swords Inn & Tavern [/center][/b][b][center][color=b8860b]Interacting With:[/color] His Thoughts [/center][/b][hr][hr]

	Wordlessly, Keystone stalked back up the thoroughfares and pathways of Salarn, en route to the Crossed Swords Inn & Tavern. He was a bit ahead of the one hour time limit imposed by Kyra. While not 100% happy with the fat that someone was arbitrarily giving him orders, he understood that this undertaking was a thing he was voluntarily a part of, and if the others would not organize of their own accord for the betterment of their common goal, then one of the bigger dogs in the pack had to start barking at the others. It was the way of things. 

	Not that Keystone minded. In pursuit of his short term goals, he was just as comfortable taking the lead, following the leader, or stepping to the side. His long term goals... were a different story. When acting in the interests of his plans for himself for the future, he was nobody's lackey or footstool. Even if he had to stool some feet or lack it up in the meantime. 

	Kyra was not as demanding as some of the tosspots he'd worked with/for in the past. She just seemed overly sensitive to other people's bullshit, intentional or not. Perhaps a thicker skin would do her some good. Naturally, the only way to grow a thicker skin was to apply pressure and wait for the body to react. Well, Keystone was nothing if not a force of physical pressure. Yes. Yes! He would strive to Just Be Himself, for the overall betterment of his new friend Kyra. 

	As he strode back to the Inn, he reached into his pockets. There was a set of two large, black knuckle dusters. So black they seemed to pull in light around them. He regarded their craftsmanship; they were unique, masterfully formed. Purposed to destroy armor, constructs, barriers, stone even, while remaining quiet as a whisper. They turned him into a pummeling juggernaut, but limited his options. He quickly put them back into his coat pockets. Maybe another time. Silver, apparently, would work better. 

	Before long, Keystone was pushing open the doors to the Crossed Swords, his coat repaired, hopefully his brass knuckles all shiny with precious metal.