Colin Roche
Colin regarda dans les yeux d'un autre homme de Tevinter, son coude appuyé contre sa gorge tandis que son autre main tenait le bras de l'homme derrière son dos dans une serrure. » Pour l'homme de testicule gauche d'Andraste, si je vous attrape en traversant encore ma tente, je vous briserai le crâne, vous comprenez moi Tevinter? Réfugié ou non, j'apprécie mon petit espace personnel et j'en ai assez d'étrangers qui l'envahissent. Il n'y a rien à voler! Je garde mes affaires sur moi, donc si tu veux ma merde, tu devras devenir un pickpocket. Partagez le mot ami, mon prochain intrus est d'obtenir l'exemple de battre qui semble tellement nécessaire.
Avec ce Colin lâcha sa main sur l'homme et regarda comme il courait profondément dans le labyrinthe des tentes de réfugiés. Satisfait, il est retourné à l'intérieur du sien.
Dites-moi, pourquoi avons-nous installé notre tente damnée au bord d'un camp de réfugiés? Attendez, je m'en souviens! Ce putain de truc n'était pas là! Qui, au nom du Baker, place une tente qui s'attend à être envahie par des réfugiés? Je sais que je ne l'ai pas fait! Je veux dire, il y en avait quelques-uns, mais je ne m'attendais pas à finir par vivre à côté de la ville de merde de Tevinter!
Colin regarda autour de lui, se demandant si Eloen était quelque part dans le camp ou si elle essayait juste de trouver des réponses réelles pour ses déambulations. Il semblait que c'était le premier.
Sors d'ici, hein chéri? Bien joué.
Aujourd'hui était le jour où ils devaient rencontrer les autres supposés être dans la force spéciale des volontaires du Divin. Il était impatient de rencontrer les gens avec qui il se battait, mais espérait qu'ils ne seraient pas tous chevaliers et garçons de papa avec des épées d'argent dans leur cul. Il était également impatient de combattre à nouveau la crapule noire. Il n'avait que dix ans quand la brûlure a frappé Ferelden et n'a pas vu beaucoup de crapauds. Pendant la bataille de Denerim, il se cacha dans une taverne avec un de ses amis, la porte boulonna et garda. Heureusement, aucun n'est passé, probablement trop occupé à combattre Cousland et son armée. Il en a vu beaucoup plus tard, mais il y avait beaucoup de travail à trouver pour protéger les idiots dans les routes profondes. Mais il ne les avait jamais vus. Je n'ai jamais vu d'armée darkspawn, jusqu'à récemment de toute façon.
Pensant aux événements d'aujourd'hui, il s'est attaché à sa longue épée d'acier et à son poignard avant de repartir dans le camp. Il avait encore le temps et a décidé d'aller vérifier sur Eloen. Son talent pour le tir à l'arc était évident lorsqu'il l'avait vue pour la première fois, mais il voulait voir comment allait l'affinement de ses compétences. Il se détourna des tentes de réfugiés et marcha vers les tentes militaires. Il trouverait le tir à l'arc face à la rivière. Plus sûr de cette façon, moins de risques de flèches errantes frappant des réfugiés ou des soldats. Alors qu'il s'approchait du côté de l'aire de répartition, il aperçut divers archers, dont la plupart étaient des soldats, mais parmi eux se tenait Eloen. Il a souri quand il l'a vue. Elle n'avait plus son regard soumis habituel à son sujet. Elle avait l'air complètement concentrée, comme une combattante. Avec la plupart des gens il aurait pris la pisse de la gravité de cela, mais en elle c'était rafraîchissant. Il a apprécié. Elle a perdu une flèche vers le bas qui lui semblait frapper sa cible.
Oui! C'est comme ça que tu as tué une putain de crapule! Vous les soldats prenant des notes?. Colin sourit, hurlant à Eloen de la courte distance avant de s'approcher d'elle.
« Se réunir pour la force volontaire du Divin se déroule bientôt Eloen. Vous devriez venir, leur dire que vous êtes intéressé et avoir une idée des gens avec qui nous travaillerons. Continue de clouer ces photos, et je te verrai là-bas, d'accord? C'est juste le long de la rivière là-bas."
Avec ça, il s'est enfui. Il avait encore un moment avant d'avoir besoin d'être au rendez-vous, mais il voulait y arriver tôt de toute façon, voir quels types sont apparus. Il se demandait s'il y aurait quelqu'un qu'il aurait pu surveiller ou qui il aurait pu le tuer. En s'approchant de l'endroit désigné, il a appelé deux jeunes, ou des gens qui étaient manifestement plus jeunes que lui de toute façon. Ils se tenaient tous les deux silencieusement, apparemment dans la contemplation. Bien sûr, Colin a rompu le silence.
Vous êtes si solennels? Hé, ce n'est pas comme si la crapule marchait dans les milliers seulement dix-sept ans après la dernière brûlure... Oh attends. Colin Roche, à votre service. Qui êtes-vous, les enfants? Attendez... Je ne suis pas allé dans la mauvaise zone et j'ai fini dans "Lover's Lane" ou quelque chose que j'ai?
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.