There were few [i]true[/i] warriors to be found in the Charred Bog. Their lack of contact with the outside world removed the necessity for it. Indeed, no knights or armor-clad soldiers could be counted amongst their numbers. They were pillagers, scavengers, finding what weapons and bits of metal they could from the swamp, itself. Centuries worth of failed campaigns and ill-fated adventures. The Pyromancers used their home to their advantage; favoring skirmishes and short-lived, decisive battles over drawn-out conflicts. To say that Brennen was out of his element in the middle of enemy territory surrounded by angry, bloodthirsty Goblins would have been a gross understatement.

But to his incredibly tall rescuer, it was almost a dance. She swung her blade with deadly precision, and Brennen could not help but notice the nearly dance-like rhythm of her muscles beneath slate-colored skin. For such a large, unwieldy-looking weapon, she wielded it as though it were weightless.

For comparison, Brennen held the smaller axe she gave him with the clumsiness of unfamiliarity. His own axe was far smaller than this; little more than a hatchet, all things considered. But this weapon, suited for one closer to his rescuer's size, forced him to adapt his stance. 

Of the two Goblins that presently remained, one, at least, had the forethought not to end up like his burning companion, and charged at Brennen with a cry that radiated pure malice. 

Seeing this, Brennen took a step back, a brief flash of surprise spreading across his features before settling into stoic concentration. Loosening his grip on the axe ever so slightly, he felt the polished wood handle slide down his hand, waiting until he nearly reached the butt of it. Tightening his hold as the Goblin came ever-closer, Brennen threw all his weight into an upward swing, using his momentum to add strength to the strike that he could not have otherwise. 

The blade caught the Goblin by head, cleaving into mottled flesh and rotten bone before sending the creature's mutilated corpse back and onto the blood-stained grass. 

The last Goblin remained, betraying in its cruel countenance, a fearful uncertainty of what it wanted to do next. Run close and face an axe? Or keep distance and confront the woman's glaive. Still hearing the anguished moans of his still-smoking companion, the Goblin was smart enough to realize two words that every race could trace back to at some point or another: Fire dangerous.