Once past the gate, Brennen's apparent wariness, earlier directed toward the Goblins that skulked after them, seemed to only magnify in their supposed safe place. Though a humble town carved from the land, Windsgate was still a proper hamlet, a shard of civilization. Stone fountains, wood town houses, cobblestone roads, it all reeked of unfamiliarity. The Pyromancers prided themselves on reclusiveness; for they were guardians of the Flame. Even the most opportunistic of them only went as far as inhabiting half-sunken ruins and long-abandoned forts, slowly reclaimed by the Bog. Each tribe's mighty bonfire could be seen from almost anywhere in the swamps; a sign of shelter and comfort. By comparison, the few braziers and sconces that marked Windsgate's pathways seemed weak and hollow. They burned, but these people did not understand the true essence of Fire. 

Brennen either ignored or did not notice the muffled laughter that followed after the two of them, no doubt from the gate guards that let them pass. Indeed, the two of them made a motley duo, to say the least, both of them drawing the attention of nearly every man, woman, and child that walked past. Who were they? The townspeople may have asked. Savages from the grim north woods? Barbarians from the cragged mountains to the east? Brennen kept his head low, hoping to pretend that the inquisitive eyes that pierced them did not exist. 

"A stew sounds wonderful." He finally said, not realizing his hunger until the words left his lips. Scouring his belt, Brennen's fingers clasped around one of the many hand-stitched pouches that adorned his person, bouncing it lightly in his hand, accompanied by the distinct clanking of coins. Money was an odd commodity to him, though he was not foolish enough to dare brave the outside world without carrying some with him. It was good fortune that kept the Goblins from splitting it all amongst themselves. A side-effect of greed, most likely. 

"To the tavern, then!" Brennen declared, his voice more confident, if only slightly.