Please welcome, Roderick Walch, a man of the cloth saved from the tedium of village life by an extraordinary adventure. 

[hider=Roderick Walch]
Roderick skipped carefully over a puddle without really noticing, one hand cramming bread into his mouth while the other scratched idly at his chest beneath a badly dented cuirass. The gangly limbs and perpetual look of terror from a year ago had been replaced by huge broad shoulders and a sort of stoic indifference that people often mistook for anger.

Slung over his shoulder was the Warhammer he had pulled from the burning Chapel in Lorch; the silver trappings and red gem had long been pulled off and sold to pay for food, or for the new knee high black boots he wore beneath a shortened travelling priests robe. A Book of Sigmar was slung across his other shoulder, the heavy tome bouncing along unnoticed on his thigh for the time. 

He had been surprised to find much of the book blank, the only spells within it were simple enough, but all of them were meant for war. Over the last year he had added to the pages as he encountered other priests, even nuns and mages, who could teach him bits and pieces, until the book showed the writings of a dozen different hands. It was unorthodox perhaps, but it seemed Sigmar himself did not disapprove. As long as Roderick continued to serve the Empire and root out evil, he had retained the gods favour.

Bread crumbs cascaded down his front, scattering off the dull grey armour to patter into the mud. Behind him, ears perked up in an ever hopeful manner, came a dog that looked as though it had more in common with a coyote than any sort of domestic canine. The bushy tail, sharply pointed ears, and inquisitive snout, made the dog a fine travel companion. He had named the dog Maria, after a former lover, and joked that she showed him more devotion than her namesake ever had. Maria wasn't a brute fighter, but as a tracker and lookout, she had few equals. 

Less interested in valour than his boon companion, Roderick seeks to fulfill the calling of his order. Turning his hand to healing more often than not, he is always a welcome face in any village in need of a priest to cure wounds or treat ailments. Well he is no doctor, he is better than the leeches often prescribed by the local barber who always seemed to double as a medical professional in out of the way backwater towns. 

Water trickled down his back despite the heavy cloak he wore and he squinted against the trickle of rain, peering through the light fog, to see the outskirts of Schartenfelds' palisade appear. He gave a satisfied grumble as he continued chewing, tossing the heel of bread to Maria who caught it in mid air. There would be warm food and ale soon enough. [/hider]