Their concern was justified, but they had more to fear than the accidental poisoning of their fingers in the battle ahead. Instead, they should be afraid because the fight was now upon them. The clear sound of the bells rang out, although Brennan did not react until he noticed the reaction the sound invoked in others. It must be a warning system of some kind. He had never fought beside any but his own people before, but the memory of the last fight caused a tendril of unhealthy fear to curl around his heart.
Brennan squashed the feeling mercilessly, as he had been taught. Second nature started to take over, and he rose to his feet with a grace born if many years of combat training. He hurried the archers toward their stations with an indolent wave of his hands that did not reflect the calm that was settling over him. Having a purpose, no matter how temporary, felt good. It felt right.
Before following after the departing archers, Brennan retrieved his staff from the underbrush. While he usually passed it off as a walking stick or wrapped it in spare fabric to obscure the very obvious shape of it, for the busy day he had stowed it out of sight. He had even tentatively planned on not using it at all, but he had no difficulty throwing his plans to the side to suit his mercurial moods. Resolute, he rested the staff - the same one given to him so long ago for becoming a mage of the Temple - against his shoulder and he joined those waiting to defend the town.
If he was going to go in, it would not be in half measures and hidden talents. His face was stony, a contrast to his usual liveliness, but far more fitting given the circumstances. He listened, and prepared, and finally moved out. If they wanted to punish him for this, than he did not want to stay in this country.