Keystone
Location: Road North of Salarn, Camp
Interacting With: 7 - Orc: Fighter, 7:45 (corpse of), Sona, Cremwise
An arrow, originating from points unknown, appeared quivering in the skull of the Orc assisting the horizontally mounted Five Thirty. This led Keystone's train of thought toward more questions. Sadly, these questions could not be asked nor answered in the meantime. He was paid to protect a wagon and its owner, and that's precisely what he intended to do. Two targets left alive and/or conscious, only one standing. This last one standing was wearing one of his favorite knives in his kidney.
The actions of the Bard, Sona, did not go unnoticed. She was spry, that one. Then again, it seemed that most of her people were. The delicate musician was eager enough to hurl herself into a particularly vorpal piggy-back ride with Seven Forty-Five, though it came at a cost. The one standing Orc, Seven, was right next to her, clawing at Keystone's kunai in his lower back. It was a short matter of time before he got the blade free and turned his aggressive intentions on either Cremwise or the unconscious Bard. It was quite literally his job to make sure that did not happen.
Keystone's left hand was still ringing and numbish from his bracers deflecting that swordfall from Five Thirty. He needed every advantage in with his range attack if he was to close the distance before it was too late. The bulging Pugilist reached back with his steadier right, unsheathing his large, bone handled seax knife. It was a truly masterful piece of steel, catching the cold morning light as he flipped it in his hand to grasp it by the blade. He exhaled sharply and stepped his right foot forward, twisting slightly to involve as many muscle groups into the throw as he could.
While his form was not perfect, it was an adequate and powerful hurl of a lightly magicked blade, constructed for, among other things, just this purpose. It seemed to sing as it parted the air in front of it, traveling in a swift and direct path terminating in the ribcage of the Axe wielding Orc known to him as Seven. Blood gurgled through Seven's mouth, his hands reflexively grasping at the knife as his own weapon slipped from his hand. The Orc was slowing, winding down like some giant, greygreen fleshy clockwork. He collapsed, and embraced the eventual outcome of mortality. Goodnight, Seven.
Keystone ran after his blade full tilt, hopping over another fallen Orc along the way. The large man paused before retrieving his knives to roll Sona's kill, the Archer (Seven Forty-Five), off of her. Satisfied that she was still breathing, Keystone removed his knives from their present resting place and put them away. "Cremwise," he started, "You stay hid 'till we can sort this out, right? Not over just yet. Yeah, Sona ain't dead, by the by."
