Location: Road North of Salarn, One hour north of Camp
Interacting With: Cyneburg, Satilla, Cremwise, Lerraina
Keystone was a huge fan of an open forum. It gave people open and equal opportunity to speak their minds in a civilized manner, free from distractions in a quiet, controlled venue. If handled properly and in a respectful manner, one may share their ideas with the group without needless fear of being talked over or shouted down.
Unfortunately, no one has ever held a successful town hall style meeting in the middle of the road in the hammering rain while potentially pursued by war hungry Orcs. Keystone listened to the suggestions presented, falling quiet for a moment. He let his mind drift, trying to put himself in a happy place. A place with bubbling pots and frying sounds, with cool, lightly overcast weather. Maybe his happy place was back home, far to the north. Yes, Home.
For Keystone, home was a largeish house in a poor part of a grand walled city. Long ago, that district was a place where merchants set up shops and built their homes, a place of music and respectable inns. But tendencies of the economy moved active trade away from the area, causing employment to shift to other districts and urban decay to set in. Decreased presence of respectable folk and town guard allowed for a criminal element to infect the area, and with the slow surety of a turning millstone grinding hard wheat to flour, time began to erode a once prosperous region of the massive city into a potentially dangerous place.
Still, this was Keystone's Happy Place. Not the whole area, though. Just his home. Once upon a time, it was an inn. It had become run down, eventually being used as cheap housing for the poor. In this place, Keystone and his mother lived a frugal existence, until he came of an age where his large size and ethical apathy gained him a spot fighting in a somewhat illegal circuit of brawlers and prize fighters. All the fun of gladiatorial games, pure fisticuffs. And they fought in so many places, both opulent and squalorly. It wasn't until Keystone's studies branched away from solely occidental technique that his meteoric rise was cemented ... but that was a tangent not suited to his Happy Place.
His winnings, rather the savings from his winnings, eventually allowed the uncouth brawler to purchase outright the building that served as his home of youth, giving it to his mother. Continued winnings made it more of a home and less of a squat. Before his decision to leave that place, he had established within the structure a marvelous personal kitchen, and upon the roof a tidy garden of herbs and local vegetables. It was that roof, in the early autumn air, snipping and harvesting, that was chiefly regarded as his Happy Place.
In the mental oasis of his Happy Place, Keystone had the dubious distinction of clubbing his present teammates to death with a bit of garden sculpture and dumping their disarticulated bodies into next season's compost.
Back in the physical world, with the rain still descending solidly from the dim, grey heavens, Keystone rubbed his temples impatiently. His teeth, great blunted things with points necessary for the rending of roasted haunches, tightened against each other with irritated tension. It can be said that the man had pressing anger issues; issues he struggled to keep under the protection of patience and wisdom. It can also be said that, in its own limited application, the Errant Pugilist did some of his best work when tinted with rage.
"Bloody, pissdamned socket-cocking 'ell! Only thing we fonging well need do is move the bloody wagon two hands upward! We ain't needin' any bronzecocking magic," he ranted, eyes narrowing at Cyneburg,
"and there's nary a codswinging chance I'm takin' hours puttin' sodding booties on Cremmy's wagon! Got an understandin', 'ave we?" Alarmed at the sudden aggressive change of tone, Kyra's dire wolf, Ash, cautiously stepped from the wagon and squared off with Keystone, who was obviously venting adrenaline into the air in levels palpable to his heightened sense of smell. The young wolf could tell the scent of anger, and recognize potential danger in the massive human. Ash rasped a deep, throaty growl and bared his teeth at Keystone, stepping slowly toward him to elicit submission. It did not have the intended effect.
Keystone looked incredulously at the beast, as he would a troublesome bar patron. He extended two fingers upward in what amounted to a rude gesture in his homeland, exclaiming,
"Sodding funnin' me, you are - Piss off!" Ash cocked his head to the side, slightly confused, before resuming his previous, threatening manner. In response, Keystone threw back the tarp on the back of the wagon, retrieving a short chub of hard, red sausage from his provisions.
"Wouldja piss off for an Ashy Snack? Oi, wouldja?" he said with faux cheerfulness, tossing the forcemeat at the instinctually protective wolf.
Riding the heat in his blood, Keystone turned to the wagon and grasped the low corner with his huge, conditioned hands. Eyes bloodshot, voice edged with profound irritation, he let out a sustained, wordless grunt and he leaned into the smooth wood of Cremwise's wagon. Slowly, the wheel began to rise from the mud and gravel below. Keystone's teeth bared. His scars seemed to darken even as his face colored with rage and strain. He looked as if he meant to kill someone or something, and channeled this into the one task of lifting a wheel onto a rock.
"Cremmy!" he strained through clenched teeth,
"Drive it on now." Cremwise gave the reins a quick shake, prompting the horseflesh to pull forward a foot or two. It was more than enough. Keystone fell to a knee before righting himself. When he did, he turned to the newcomer with a much calmer, but terse voice nonetheless.
"You wanna come with, that's just tops. Otherwise, you can wander about in dangerous wood by your lonesome. We're sodding off."
"Tell us 'bout y'self on the way."
