Morgen kept his head low, not needing to be told twice. While more often than not he wasn't given the time of day (literally and figuratively speaking) by people they encountered, the risk was always there. While one would need to be close enough to kiss him to notice the odd limbal rings in his wasted eyes, all it took was one person to recognize that they were unnatural, scribed by the skilled and merciless hands of an enchanter, marking him as a conduit. He closed his eyes, allowing Morwen to assist him in meandering through the market. All the conversations seemed to roll into one murmuring, nonsensical noise. The only sounds he really picked up on where the occasional exclamation of shock or disgust when someone got to close to Spot, or noticed her skulking through the crowds. Lots of people liked dogs, he knew, but Spot was big and bullish and unwavering. She didn't flinch away from people, remaining steadfast at Morgen's side.

"Get that mutt outta here!" It was the first clear words that rang out across the room to them as they made their way into the inn. Morgen gathered that the common room must have been mostly empty, as the shouting didn't seem to interrupt much discussion. "We're a establishment, not a feckin' kennel!"

"Sorry missus!" Morgan said hastily and lifted a hand to Spot's head. His brow knit as he tightened his grip on Morwen's arm, briefly shifting to the beast to visualize for the dog, images of where to go, to wait. Spot was retreating back out the door before it even had a chance to fully close  behind them, and Morgen worried for her safety. She was big, lots of good meat on her for a desperate man... and simple sport to beat and kill, for the cruel man. Nothing he could fret over now; she was on her way out, and he hoped she would either hunker down around the building side somewhere, out of sight, or make her way clear of the outpost, away from those who might wish her harm simply for the sake of harm. He always felt naked when the dog wasn't near, defenseless, and he edged closer to Morwen.

The inn was single-story, a large common area sprawled out in front of them from the only entryway. There were two windows along the side walls, covered crudely with ratty curtains that flickered with the occasional breeze. A short hall stretched out just to the right of the bar with seven doors, presumably leading to seven rooms available for patronage. 

The woman behind the bar who had snapped at them upon entry was eyeing them as if she expected trouble. And why not? Two kids like that were bound to be up to no good. Likely pickpockets, either ducking in to avoid a pursuer or looking to steal something from her. She was old, but it was a fair bet that she looked much older than she truly was. Her dark hair was streaked with strands of dull grey, piled into a haphazard bun atop her head, and while her eyes were sharp, a brilliant shade of ice blue, the flesh around them was heavily wrinkled, likely from too much time spent in the sun, squinting against it. Her skin was darkened, splotched with spots that were even darker, mottling her features. Perhaps she had spent much of her youth working at inhospitable crops in the wastelands; perhaps she did still.

"If ye ain't got coin for a room, git back out there. Ain't desp'rate enough to be servin' no kids any moonshine."