Keystone
Location: Woods North of Salarn, Orc Encampment, Evening of Day Three
Interacting With: Thomas, vigorously.
He didnât leave. He didnât offer to help, either. In place of these options, the upstart spellcaster chose to continue interrupting the party, prattling on about his own pursuit of knowledge in a manner totally inappropriate to the actual conversation. Along the way, he managed to fit in a rousing session insulting various members of the group.
Ordinarily, a slew of hurled insults among similar company wouldnât be something to invoke a rapid physical response, but the situation wasnât quite ordinary. This was no polite campsite shared amongst friends; nary a cheap sausage was being roasted over the fire, there were no rousing songs performed inexpertly by cracking, warbling voices, and definitely no racing each other to the nearby swimming hole.
This situation could be more accurately described by pointing out a few harsh facts: Their group was in danger, not to mention rudderless. They barely held off an attack from an Orc patrol just a couple of days ago. Though victorious, a pack of dogs would have fought with better organization. Further, they were within the boundaries of the Orcâs campsites because they were expecting an attack from Undead of unknown strength and origin. Between that and the Warchiefâs terms, they were in the middle of a pressing discussion on the best course of action to keep themselves alive.
The second half of his tirade finally pushed Keystone to act. The reasons were twofold, for anyone with experience adventuring on the open road: Firstly, offering disrespect to other party members, notably Satilla and Sana, could not go unanswered. They were all supposed to be allies, at the very least, against what promised to be overwhelming odds. In particular, Sana and Keystone had history. They fought and bled together, had each othersâ backs. There was trust present. Plus, she was the closest thing to a friend that the occidental monk had for hundreds of miles - it made her a poor choice for target within his presence. Secondly, the group was within a huge wartime encampment of tribal orcs. Like any gang, feral clan, or unit held together by a single, powerful leader, these Orcs were apt to respect strength above all else. The flipside of that coin was disrespect, if not direct attack of, anything perceived as weakness. If left alone, it was very possible that they would be pushed directly into any incoming attack (one was expected). Or simply turned upon. As it stood, the Orcs werenât exactly happy that they were sharing the same patch of dirt and breathable air.
Keystone didnât need any mixed messages, nor the appearance of an underling challenging group authority. He and Kyra had gone to meet with the Chief, and were very openly visible doing so. Whether or not they were actually in charge (Keystone was still painfully unsure as to the group dynamic now), the Orcs sure as hell thought so. This action, without obvious response, would most definitely be taken as a sign of weakness.
For these reasons, redirection was required.
Keystoneâs features drained of emotion. Irritation, rage, confusion - it all fell away, betrayed only by a slight narrowing of his eyes. This was meant to be a quick, tactical maneuver based on the utilitarian need of the moment. Allowing emotion to come into it could be unnecessarily dangerous to the people around himself and his intended target. This was about minimizing the moment, not ripping someone in half. Though it was tempting.
As with most of his forays into fisticuffs, Keystone forwent the use of weapon or magic. This had to be a stoic example of raw skill, otherwise the meaning behind the action would be blurred, misinterpreted. Setting his face to the businesslike neutrality he learned in his early days as a tavern bouncer, he released both knife and plate from his grip.
Keystone was in motion before his plate hit the ground. It was a short step over to Thomasâs location, which the broad man cleared easily with a leap. While airborne, his hand curled halfway into a fist, allowing the full power of his torso to surge into the strike, rotating slightly in preparation of a devastating overhand right. His weight alone would allow the dense and scarred knuckles to demolish bone, wood, or stone put before him; combined with superior technique, a polished, telling blow would easily chase a grown manâs mortal spirit from his body before it would even register the pain to which it was subjected. This was pure, concentrated ouch, an unstoppable force of nature given the form of knuckle-points, the bludgeoning collector of souls. The most concentrated form of the eastern Iron Fist technique, descending upon a single target as an inverted volcano regurgitating death upon the unwary. Were one especially sighted, one might have been able to observe ripples of space compressed before the coming strike, promising complete obliteration.
Except that it didnât land.
The segment of heartbeat that Keystoneâs feet touched earth directly next to Thomas revealed part of his strategy: The part that didnât involve actual killing. It was a feint, a rapid and dramatically executed one designed to make the target expect a high, front/flank attack. Instead, Keystone spun away to one side, placing himself facing the young Sorcererâs rear flank, extending his powerful, coordinated arms attempting a forceful grapple.
Much like the set of his jaw, it was a holdover from his bouncing days. One of few techniques he did not acquire during his travels (though it did receive some minor modification in execution for his later training), a sidefacing Choke Hold. Showy but not innately lethal, it should satisfy any onlooking Orcs of their strength and resolve, uphold the honor of the insulted parties present, with the added benefit of allowing conversation to continue unabated. Afterwards, anyway. The next few moments would tell soon enough.
