Atyth était dans ce campement depuis plus de quelques jours et pourtant, chaque matin, elle semblait se retrouver complètement et désespérément perdue. L'enfer, étant une femme de seulement quatre pieds et demi avec un penchant pour la gentillesse a fait naviguer un champ de bataille semble comme une promenade à gâteau par rapport à la mer mouvante de réfugiés sales et désespérés qu'elle avait eu à faire en nombre croissant chaque jour. En fait, elle avait été reconnaissante lorsqu'elle a reçu la note de parchemin qui appelait des guerriers expérimentés : toute mission qui l'avait vraiment sortie de ce camp débordé était la bienvenue à son avis. Bien sûr, elle était ici pour accomplir une tâche spécifique pour un certain petit oiseau - une tâche qu'elle a rapidement décidé pourrait être tout aussi facilement accomplie tout en aidant cette Lady d'Fleur.
En faisant de son mieux pour ressembler totalement à elle savait la direction exacte qu'elle allait Astyth errait un peu plus autour, son monde de surface lourde conçu nain plaque de courrier clanking pendant qu'elle marchait naviguait les foules: bien sûr le long du chemin elle a laissé sortir plusieurs de ses lignes habituelles, Oh excusez-moi.
Elle avait été au milieu de penser que je jure que toute cette section de tentes n'était même pas ici hier quand elle a vu un géant gris corné de l'homme se couper le chemin à travers les foules de gens comme un requin à travers l'eau - si elle était une fille pariant que grand et mortel regarder devait aller au même endroit qu'elle était.
Pendant un bref moment, elle se joignit à l'idée d'essayer d'escalader la montagne de marche dans une tentative de voir sur toutes les satanées longues jambes bourdonnantes. Elle a rapidement décidé contre une telle ligne de conduite brash bien que les divers résultats possibles joués à travers sa tête. Probablement pas une bonne idée qu'elle pensait à elle-même après tout, je n'ai jamais appris si les rumeurs sur ces morsures étaient vraies ou pas...
Pour tous ses voyages en vérité, Astyth savait peu sur les célèbres hommes cornés qui allaient par de nombreux noms: dont la plupart avaient des significations très différentes. Elle a trouvé son esprit s'enfuyant comme il l'a souvent fait, ses pensées finalement se demandant quel nom ce béhémoth pourrait utiliser. Elle ne perdait pas de temps à suivre ses traces avec la conviction que cela marcherait. Bien sûr, en peu de temps, il l'avait conduit sans le savoir à une tente de style pavillon de taille décente. Ce devait être le lieu de rencontre pour la petite bande d'inadaptés assemblée par une Lady d'Fleur. - un fait Astyth si brillamment déduite par l'étrange ménagerie d'hommes et de femmes qu'elle voyait bientôt rassemblée.
En suivant directement après son guide sans nom, l'humeur du groupe était...odd. Normalement, Astyth se distinguait comme un canard étrange et travaillait donc habituellement seul, mais jusqu'à présent, elle ne pensait pas qu'elle devait s'inquiéter d'être la "wierd".
Avec sa mace en fer attachée dans une plate-forme en cuir faite main à sa hanche gauche et le boucleur rond en acier suspendu sur son dos, elle avait les mains libres nécessaires pour soulever le casque face pleine de sa tête. Comme ses mains blindées ont enlevé le masque métallique protecteur qui ressemblait à un crâne portant une couronne, le visage qui a pris sa place était presque comiquement différent : les yeux de noisette et le nez légèrement tordu tracent autour de tout le monde en vue. Elle semblait aimer tous ceux qu'elle voyait à l'exception de Garlenn, qu'elle donnait un bref regard de dégoût sous la forme d'un nez brouillé et d'un léger sourire moins amical. Rapidement, bien que ses expressions faciales soient retournées à un véritable sourire denté complet, alors qu'elle regardait la même femme Gereth s'adressait à ce que le grand gars a dit. Sans dire grand-chose, elle semblait prendre un peu de tonnerre de l'entrée des géants cornus.
Name: Colin Roche
Age: 27
Sex: Male
Race: Human
Class/Sub-class: Duel-Wield Rogue/Duelist
Abilities:
Dance of Death – He gains confidence and control with each defeated opponent, giving him the strength to keep on fighting.
Unforgiving Chain - His daggers are a blur and he is an opportunist, this with his speed and stamina make him a deadly foe to fight for any extended duration.
Combat Movement – He dances around his enemies awaiting the fatal flaw in their defence.
Coup de grâce – Against stunned or badly wounded opponents he is death itself, able to deliver brutal finishers to multiple weakened foes.
Deft Hands, Fine Tools – His colourful past has left him with some useful, but usually criminal skills.
“No shit we could be killed! Did you not know that entering this fight!? He's got a great-sword you idiot, it's not like it's going to tickle!”
Personality: Colin is courageous, impulsive, angry, prone to violence and sarcastic as hell. He's generally just in it for gold and good times and doesn't really care what “it” happens to be as long as there are people to fight and renown to be earned. He very much enjoys fighting, especially with his fists and takes great pleasure in toying with friends and foes alike who take combat too seriously, which is just about everyone. He's confident in his abilities, arrogant most would say and it shows both in and out of combat. Over everything else he wants glory.
“I think I’d make a good dwarf. Don’t reckon I could pass though.”
History: Colin grew up in the city of Denerim in Fereldan, the son of a local tavern wench. He never knew his father and he never really cared. His mother took great care of him despite his constantly getting intro trouble as a child. He’d fight nearly every other day as a kind of youthful distraction. Him and a few good friends would group up and fight kids from the cities other neighborhoods for no other reason than that they were bored. It wasn’t too long before they found out that their reckless energy could be used to get gold and soon they were acting in cut-purse units. One or two kids causing a distraction and one, usually Colin sneaking in and cutting the purse strings. At this time however it was more for a bit of fun than anything else.
A couple of years later a sickness swept through the slums of Denerim and Colin’s mother took sick and simply didn’t get better. Colin was 10 at this time, and it was then that his practice as a cut-purse and fighter would start to really matter. From then on cut-pursing became a regular part of his life, and it wasn’t simply for a laugh anymore. He found as the next couple of years went on however that people were getting more and more careful with their purses and the city guards became ever watchful. It was then that a good friend introduced him to lock-picking and burglary. He had a knack for all things thievery it seemed, and learned how to pick locks quickly. He made a lot of money selling things that didn’t belong to him, but eventually made the mistake of selling some goods to an apparently honest man.
So he lost a finger for that crappy 80 bit vase. It definitely wasn’t worth it, but shit happens. He was around fourteen years of age now and the years had been reasonably kind. He stole enough to keep him relatively well fed and he and his friends still had fun fighting in the back alleys. It was at that time when he first discovered the fighting pits. Back alley fights where people placed bets and the fighters were paid well. Colin thought he’d discovered his dream job. Luckily he was big for his age and convinced the fight organizer that he was sixteen instead of his true age. Not that the bloke actually cared about anything more than the money. So at fourteen he entered his first real fight. He was beaten bloody. Worst beating he’d ever taken at that age, and he’d taken more than a few. Still, he was undeterred. Three months and several unofficial gang fights later he was back in the ring. Once again he was beaten, but this time he gave quite the beating in return. A month later he was back and this time he won, dodging most of his opponents strikes, dislocating his arm and pummeling his face. As he stood and his opponent didn’t he felt better than he ever had before in his life. Power. Pride. Something. He loved it.
He found himself back in that ring over a hundred times in the next six or so years. He became incredibly skilled in hand to hand combat and for a time he was the main attraction of the pit-fighting world. Eventually though someone made a comment about fighting with steel being real fighting and for some reason he couldn’t get it out of his head. Maybe he’d get that feeling again. That feeling he had felt after winning, truly winning for the first time.
So, because of a stupid remark by a random person he joined The Blackstone Irregulars and began training with his first two iron daggers. He wasn’t that great with blades at first but luckily some skills from fist fighting were transferable. He moved very well, he was patient for kill opportunities and best of all he was seemingly fearless. Once again he learned quickly and it wasn’t long before he was sent out on contracts. Over the next seven years he killed deserters, guarded merchants, killed bandits, recovered stolen supplies and did all other types of petty soldier work. The man was right about one thing. Killing was exhilarating, but there were things that he despised about the job. Firstly, he wasn’t paid very well. Secondly he didn’t get any of the glory of his actions. Everyone he killed, every contract he did well, all of the thanks went straight to the Blackstone Irregulars.
It was that little fact that made him decide to leave the company and instead start out as an independent sellsword. He wanted the gold and glory he bought so often with others blood.