The situation had gone from interesting to unfortunate for the journeyman's tastes. 

It seemed the consensus was the lad was going to recover and waken, and he trusted these manlings to know more about their own anatomy than he. He was relieved of that, but with all of his livelihood on his back he was a bit more concerned with himself at the moment. This was growing a bit too involved in the local politics. He was here to make a living, not a legend. Bringing back gold for his clan was the utmost importance. 

He turned to the disfigured manling that spoke to him as if he knew him, ignoring the others that spoke up about joining on this woodland trek. "I'm a tanner, not a-" He started, then realized he was about to say 'soldier.' A man of the Empire likely couldn't appreciate it, but that was close to blasphemy. Every Dwarf in a hold was expected to gather arms in time of war. The Dwarf stalked past him toward the bar, where his drink was readied. "I'm here to make saddles and jerkins."  

The Dwarf reached up and took the pint off the counter, taking a long whiff of what he knew to be Kislevite Vodka. It wasn't Dwarf make, but it would certainly do. The Dwarf sat down in thought at the table. He took a robust sip, froth sticking to the fringe of his mustache and upper beard as he considered. Despite his words, the prospect stuck to him with the simple logic that if this town were to be sacked, he'd have no place to set up shop. How could he claim to wish to be apart of the trade if he wasn't willing to fight for it? 

Burundi knew his father would offhandedly claim he died for some human affair if he perished on this journey. But then he thought of young Johann. No, the other one. The roads were dangerous enough for a lad like that. If there was Grobi or Chaos-filth infesting the woods, he might meet his end out there, working just as Burundi was. Slowly, he knew he had to go with these Brettonian bastards. He could use a few good battles on his belt to honor his family, he had to admit. 

The Dwarf had been sitting and thinking for what seemed like an eternity, and once he broke out of his thoughts he felt as if eyes were on him, and with a very brutish grumble, he opened his throat and downed the last half of the pint. The cup clapped onto the table, and Burundi took up his poleaxe and hopped off his seat. The chair was relieved to be rid of the Dwarfish weight, creaking and standing up a bit taller. 

He approached the new Johan, his face grim and set for purpose. "Find a place to stash my belongings while I'm gone, and you have my service. That and the coin. I don't need the reputation, but I need the gold. Understand?" He asked, and once he was satisfied, leaving his workman pack with him, he strode over to Brandt, Roderick, and Jehan armed with his melee weapon and crossbow, and a small knapsack of rations and ale.  

Luckily, the three that had volunteered look like they knew how to handle themselves. He hoped the two Brettonians were capable of fighting off horseback. He'd seen how effective Sigmarite Warrior Priests were when they're fervor was at its height. Much like Slayers in a backwards sort of way. He supposed there was worse company he could have been in. He could be going in with militiamen like Feitz.

"I hope we're to fight Orcs." He said to the two as he approached, stopping in between them and turning to address the room. "Grimnir knows we could do with a few less of them in the world."