Kline, though he would never answer to the name(he would instead answer to Sparrow), was not a man who ever believed in Fate. He was not a man who believed in the Maker or of any sorts of "fairy tales" as he liked to call them. His simple way to explain life? "A bunch of crazy shit happens and no one ever really knows why and then you die. Simple as that".
So taking a job as a mercenary never seemed like it had much of an argument for Sparrow, as much of an adventurer as he was. The job gave him travel, freedom, and money to boot. Sure, he had to kill some bad people who'd done some bad things and maybe yeah, that made him a bad person too. Or maybe it didn't, Sparrow didn't honestly give a damn.
Recently, Sparrow had been on a job in Orlais, a small assassination job that had paid him handsomely. Since the recent war, Sparrow had been taking jobs wherever he could find them. With everyone in that "we don't want to fight we just want peace" mood, everything seemed to be a bit more laid back in terms of the general vibe of the people of Thedas. But still a deep undercurrent of unspoken nerves was felt, intensely by Sparrow since he had always been a good read on people's emotions and the like. It had been a talent of his since he was small, he was good at reading people.
Now he was heading back towards the forest where he usually made his home(unless he was shackled up in Ferelden, Denerim probably, drinking himself into a stupor at the Pearl. But his little forest it seemed, was nestled next to some ancient elven ruin. Sparrow hadn't wanted to investigate, not a big fan of magic due to the weird tingly feeling it gave him. He didn't hate mages, no he had quite a few mage friends and he truly believed they deserved freedom. But, magic still unnerved him in some way, despite his openness.
As Sparrow heard the slightest brush of leaves, he snapped his head up at attention. Another soft pad of a foot and that was all he needed. Pulling his bow from behind his back in one swift motion, Sparrow notched an arrow and readied his aim. He let out a breath, the muscles in his arms taut as he aimed with such a precise eye one would question his teacher's skill. Truth is, he'd been taught by no one. It was simply a skill he'd picked up as a small child that he'd enjoyed, and so he got really really good at it. He hardly ever missed, or never he'd say since he wasn't one of those "I won't toot my own horn" sorts. No, he'd toot away, he knew he was good. Better than good, he knew he was one of the best.
"I'd be real careful about taking another step without first identifying yourself. My arrow doesn't exactly come with a moral compass and I'm not a bad shot to say the least," he said in a simple tone that was yet filled with pride and cockiness all rolled into one. His face was serious, set in concentration as he waited for a response.