[u][b]Brandt[/b][/u]

Over the last year, Brandt had seen Roderick learn as much as he could from other priests and holymen. He was a decent physiker, skilled at battlefield medicine and Brandt had scars enough thanks to his companions efforts. Without, Brandt would likely be a limb or two short. However, there was a limit to what battle medicine could do, and even the blessings of Sigmar were aimed towards smiting foes and shielding warriors. There was likely little to be done for a boy so diseased and malnourished as the poor lad brought in by the foreigner. Brandt had been relieved when a proper healer had begun to treat him, but annoyed by the crowd. For a moment he thought he saw the same expression on her face that Roderick got when some peasant suggested a dung poultice.

“Give him some room, y’idiots,” he grumbled, eliciting a chuckle from Roderick as the man watched the same sight. Brandt quaffed a measure of his ale to wash down his annoyance, and nearly coughed it all over himself at the boom of the door being kicked in. He sputtered his ale, and elbowed Roderick twice, harder then he needed to.

“Is that a dwarf?” He said soto voice. “It’s gotta be a dwarf, it’s not some short fat man, it’s a proper dwarf and all the way out here!”

When the dwarf joined the crowd around the boy, Brandt wasn’t sure to laugh or holler. That deep rumbling voice then pronounced the boys immanent demise, Brandt couldn’t agree more. “He bloody will if you sods trample all over him! Foreigners and dwarfs, eh?”

Roderick shrugged and chuckled. Food and ale had put them in good humour, but it was not to last as Mr. Bock announced himself. Brandt adjusted his grip on his flamberge, frowning deeply. The man mentioned manic users, some sort of eldritch precognition. He looked back at his priestly companion. If this were a town that harboured witches, they would have to act... but no. The man, for all his scars and hard looks was simply a windbag. Surely a town like this would have some old crone or soothsayer, spouting enough nonsense that something had to stick. 

Brandt shifted his weight and eased his grip on his swords scabbard. Brandt listened to the mans story. It was a familiar one, in these dark times. The sort of story whispered to children to keep them in line, and breed a healthy fear of the deep woods. Of course stories all come from somewhere, and the two men had seen enough in their short travels to know that there was more then children’s tales in the dark corners of the Empire.

When the man finally got around to the point, Brandt didn’t need to think much. He was about to ask Roderick’s thoughts, but the young priest merely nodded at his friend. Returning the gesture, Brandt put his drink down and stood in the now silent beer hall. His cloak fell open as he did so, showing the oft repaired cuirass he wore beneath. At the end of his left arm, armoured from shoulder to wrist, he clutched his great sword. Despite the wear of the road, the backlighting of the fire allowed him to cut an impressive figure.

“We’re up for it, sir,” he stated. “Though if you’ve got any leads, we’ll have ‘em. Don’t fancy wandering about in circles with no aim at all.”

The man glanced around the room. There were other warriors among them. Would some of the others offer to join? That weather beaten knight who’d been drinking at the bar looked like they could handle themselves well, and a few others. Brandt grinned at a sudden thought; maybe he’d get to fight beside a dwarf!