Description

Name: Dervish "Doc" Roth
Age: 31
Gender: Male
Height: 6'1.5''
Weight: 182 lbs.
ARM: Type-7 Rommel (Remington Model 870) & Liberty Hammer Model 15 (Colt Diamondback .38 Special)
Tools: Folding Medical Kit



Description: Adorned in his favored brown deerskin coat, with its sleeves folded back into cuffs, and faded wide-brimmed hat so worn it's lost most of its shape, Dervish appears rather plain and unassuming. Despite its appearance, his light brown hair requires no attention to keep its look, and in any case Dervish is not the kind of sort who pampers himself in any manner of way. His skin carries the finely tanned signs of a man who spend his days in the sun, and his hands are rough and callused from the multitudes of jobs he's busied himself with other than docterin'. He prefers to wear leather gloves when patchin' people up, and when not in use they're tucked away into an outer pocket. And despite wearing a belt it's purely for his Hammer's holster; black, worn suspenders do the real work.

Personality

Dervish's always felt the sort of man who can never keep his interests in one place for too long. Always needing more to do, more to busy his hands and his head, he worked all around town whenever he had the chance. As such he admits it's sometimes hard to keep sitting still for too long unless he has something to occupy his time that's worth the effort to focus on. This doesn't really mean he's the talkative type, though many believe he does have quite the mouth when he chooses to say what's on his mind. Sometimes flippant, often deemed a little spacey, he gained the reputation of an oddball with a straight shot and steady hands who could get done right what came his way. He came to be known as a guy who would volunteer for a job when his hands were idle, rarely caring what there was to be done just because it actually gave him something to do. He'd learned to use a gun at a young age, and found that takin' the time to hone his aim actually seemed to calm him down. Even if it was a waste of rounds, whenever he started feeling just a little too down in the dumps he would go off by himself and squeeze off a few shots.

To say the least, Dervish is not quite a man of moral diligence. The way he figures it, each man 'n woman's got a right to breathe and a right to walk, but if they choose to go where they ain't oughta, or get mouthy when they talk, then they're free game for a bullet 'twixt the eyes. He believes in each person's right to be just so long as they're right by others and don't harm the whole through greedy means or shady deeds. He sees no wrong in takin' a sip now and then, or even beddin' a woman you don't rightly know once in a while just so long as she's willin'. Essentially: a rightly balanced mix of selfless and selfish never really hurts. Just so long as you give back to those who give to, and don't hurt others for fun or just because you can, then who says you can't enjoy life a little when you want to? Although he is guilty, himself, of starting a few brawls just because he felt like getting into a scrape a time or two. Or seven.

He fancied once he was a star-crossed man, what with his mother, father, lover and friends dying at the hands of bandits, all. Though not the sort to depend on others, both for company or for a hand in a job, he still came to miss the companionship he'd had in Barsom and during his time as a caravaneer. He got along all right with others, and tried to be friendly as he could even when others were maybe a little ornery. His time as a singular Drifter changed once he teamed up with Drake Marshall, whom he had met once before, after a job they agreed to carry out together. If anything it just gave him someone to ramble on to when he was feeling chatty, other than his horse.

History

Writing Excerpt

"They glide upon wings of faith. Do you know that, March?" I crouched down, hand hovering over the dead man's body, fingers splayed in all directions. He cocked his head a little this way and then that, as if pondering the mysteries of the words, himself. "Foolish, simple little things," he lamented this fact, or so he perceived it to be. He had seen wisdom in them, he had seen stupidity. These days there seemed to be much more of the latter, and he was not quite pleased with that. He'd had hopes for their race, once. Now . . now he was not sure what to think of them. With a little sigh, I summoned up the soul of the human, storing it in a crystal charm at the end of a white gold chain. He tucked the trinket underneath his shirt and stood.

Behind him came the crunch of steel; heavy steel. Metal scraped against metal, screaming in resistance as the mighty thing walked. It was a body of armor, with huge horns reaching high up from the helmet. There were no eyes within the helmet, it seemed, only darkness beneath the swept-back horns topping the helmet off. It all was pitch black, and seemed to suck in the light instead of reflecting it. A cloak, ragged and ruined, fluttered around the body of armor, the only malleable part of the monolithic entity. It was all organic. This was no being in a suit, the being was the suit. March. War. The Bloody Red One. Ironic, since his steely skin was black. Most of the time, anyway. He was not at his full height, which was miles high, at least; choosing instead to appear as a much smaller version of his true form.

March scoffed, the sound was like sandpaper over dry stone. "I suppose their faith is a strength?" He asked, striding with thick, heavy footsteps over to another litter of broken bodies; another pile of stolen souls. "Look, I. Look at what their faith did to them. They trusted their leader, they followed him blindly. They put their faith in a mortal man, and it destroyed them all."

I sneered, barking out, "We are the ones who destroyed them, you giant oaf!" March turned 'round much faster than something his considerable size and weight should have been able to. "They are only dead because we decided that their side should lose. Really, now, don't tell me you've forgotten that?" He asked in a sarcastic voice, the insult more in the tone, in the implication, than in the words themselves.

March approached the Archdemon, staring down at his associate, "Don't tempt me, I." He growled, an avalanche of tumbling rock rumbling through his voice. Honestly, I was not entirely sure if he could best the Lord of War in a fight. He was mightier than I in a way that the ancient Grigori could not quite understand. In a match of power, the winged Demon was vastly superior. But, strength and sword? Those had always been the lumbering giant's forte. Legion's was his mind, obviously. His cold, calculating cunning. Sana's was . . not quite any of those. He was vicious, merciless, and entirely malevolent in a way none of the other three were. If there were a devil, like the humans believed, I was willing to believe Sana was a wonderful candidate.

"This will all be over soon," March said. I snapped out of his reverie just in time to see March's foot come down on some poor survivor, crushing half the human's body in a fatal blow. He shook his head, helmet scraping against his pauldrons, "I was talking to you, not the human." He turned around, his emptiness piercing into I's eyes. "Germany will be fallen, soon. They will not hold against the Allies much longer. We may need America to crush Japan. I believe Legion has thought up something particularly tasteful for such a feat."

"The bomb?" I asked. He'd been examining another corpse. It was riddled with gunshot wounds and shrapnel.

"Indeed," March confirmed, a light chuckle in his voice. "Brutal. Effective. I like it."

I snorted back a laugh, "You liked Pearl Harbor." He threw a glance back at the armored titan. "Well, you liked what happened to it."

"I had a hand in it," March reminded. "You want to wake a dragon? You don't poke it with a stick, you stab it with a spear. Legion wanted America enraged. I supplied the kindling."

"In the form of a sunken naval fleet, yes, I know. It really was quite ingenious. Nothing like a little blood vengeance to get the fire going, eh?" I smiled. The look was twisted because it seemed so kind and humorous, as if he was enjoying a joke at a stately dinner and not finding comedy in a brutal surprise attack. "Humor me, March," I knelt down and scooped up a necklace from the ground. It was a locket, with the image of a young woman inside. His eyes lowered to the man nearby. An American. He tossed it away as one would any other piece of trash. "What will we do with dear, old Hitler?" He chuckled, "Give him to the Russians?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Suicide, maybe. He's been a perfect little puppet. Possibly a bit of mercy, for all we've given him," March suggested.

I shrugged, "Who ever said you weren't merciful?"

March nodded, "All who taste that which I proffer. It is not a kindness that I dole out, old friend. The world must move along, and nothing is quite as jolting as a good, old fashioned war." I had to agree. Though it had been said in jest, a fact which the Bloody God surely recognized, he was entirely correct. Neither one of them were really all that kind. March, not at all, and I only just. But, then again, they'd never had a fantasy that they were.

"Yes, you're quite right," I turned to face the setting sun. He could see planes, far in the distance, much farther than human eyes could see. There was going to be a bombing raid, soon. They would be there, when it came. Gifts delivered, soaring on the wings of faith.