Character bio form:
Name: Royan Lexandre do'Willox a’Hammel; he never answers to Royan, only Lexandre or Lex
Origin: Inishlinn, Murandy
Strength/Talents: somewhat above average, although nothing particularly impressive. He is strongest in Earth, Air and Fire, then Spirit, and finally Water. Talents include making ter’angreal and Power-wrought weapons, Travelling and seeing ta'veren
Appearance: Lexandre stands 6’1”, with an average build. Dark green eyes, with an uneven ring of brown around the pupil. He has quite a bit of hair, which he wears cut close to his head due to its curliness, but its sandy brown has gone fully white, as has his curled mustache and small patch beard on his chin. His hair is really the only clear sign of his age, as his fair, slender face still holds a youthful cast. He wears the black coat of an Asha'man cut in the long style of his homeland, and only when required, preferring to wear bright colors on his own time. He is something of a clean freak, being meticulous about his person, his clothing, and his accommodations. As a result, he always smells faintly of perfumed soap, which may also be the result of the number of the women he keeps around.
Lex appears to be an open, friendly man, and typically he is. However, he seems a bit inconsistent at times, as if he's a little different each encounter with him, and has moments of being quiet, withdrawn, or openly hostile. And though the years have mellowed him somewhat, he still wields the famous Murandian temper. When angry, his face reddens, his eyes narrow and his tenor voice seems to deepen as his lilting accent grows thicker. When scared, he retreats and becomes almost childlike, particularly if in a confined spaces.
History: (200 words minimum)
The clang of metal against metal filled him as Lexandre hammered out the blade. Even with saidin in his grasp, the familiar ring drove out all other sounds, both real and imagined. And though the danger of the One Power filled him to the brim, he felt at peace. Working with his hands brought him a deep contentment that nothing else touched. Well, he thought as his mind flickered briefly back to the girl he'd spent the previous night with, maybe women came close.
In his three hundred plus years, he'd lost count of how many swords he had forged, for himself and other Asha'man and others brave enough to venture to the Black Tower to commission one. Each had been unique to the hand that would wield it, and while his name would never be mentioned with classical greats like Ordonis Levrante or Jaim Tomanes, his skill rose above merely being a master Smith. Having a few extra centuries under his belt helped.
Time slipped by him as he worked, content as he hammered and tempered and quenched the blade. The Smith was fully in control, focused and enjoying the supreme order of his workshop, everything in its place and nothing without a purpose. Clutter and chaos made him anxious and timid. It reminded him of being a child, when he'd been taken for ransom by a Mindean house with a grudge against Lexandre's father. Sulifen a'Hammel cared more for his money than his youngest, and so the Mindeans took out their fury on the boy.
The void around him wavered as brief glimpses of that buried childhood surfaced. The beatings, the laughter, the humiliation and, the worst, the Box. That filthy stinking box was where the baby boy Royan ceased to exist and the hard, angry boy Lexandre rose in his place. That boy had stolen a sword and a horse, cutting his way through a few of his tormentors before escaping back to his home. Not that his father had been overjoyed to see him. It didn't matter that Royan had only been six when he'd been taken; any self respecting a'Hammel shouldn't have needed five years to escape from an enemy.
Lexandre forced the memories down, back into the wardrobe where he kept all the other horror from his early life. It frustrated him that centuries hadn't managed to rid him of their presence. Didn't matter. At the moment, the steel in his hands was all that mattered. He grabbed the leather for the handle and began wrapping it. His long deft fingers were rough and stained from this labor of love, which always pleased him. How his father would've hated knowing any of his boys, even the most worthless and youngest of the lot, worked with his hands.
Once finished, he let the weapon rest as he set to cleaning the shop, and then himself. Neither the Smith nor the Gentleman could stand to be dirty and took great care to clean up after every endeavor. The Solider did as well, though he seemed a bit more amused by the other two's fastidiousness; cleanliness for a soldier was simply a matter of necessity in the field rather than an obsession.
Now that the task was complete, the Smith made way for the Gentleman to return. Lex stretched, his spine crackling as he did, and slid back into his black shirt. Frankly, he found wearing black appallingly boring, but since he was concluding business here on the grounds of the Black Tower, it was only proper to wear the bloody Asha'man uniform. He smoothed his white hair down before rolling his curled mustache between his fingers to make sure it, too, was in place. Satisfied he looked fine, he tossed on his long-cut coat with its sword and Dragon pins, slid the sword into its scabbard and headed out to the Tower grounds proper.
His client arrived just as Lex made his way to the gate. “Lord Amperin, a pleasure to see you again.”
The Andoran lord smiled and shook his hand. “And you, Asha'man. I trust you've made progress?” The man's blue eyes glittered with excitement as he ran a hand over his white-blonde beard. The man had paid a ridiculous amount for this sword, but it wasn't up to Lex to judge. All that mattered was that the customer was happy.
“Here,” he said, offered the scabbard to Amperin. As the Lord drew the weapon and began working through some forms, Lex smiled to himself, a sense of contentment for a job well done. His eyes flicked beyond his customer and his good mood melted away with his smile. A diminutive woman, barely five feet in height and skinny as a sparrow, strode across the grounds. She must have felt his eyes as she looked over to meet his hostile stare. Whatever expression he wore made her blanch and pull her red-fringed shawl tighter around her shoulders as she hurried about her business.
The Solider muttered a string of curses under his breath that would make the most seasoned sailor blush. The bloody Red Ajah always had a presence around the Black Tower it seemed. After the first twenty or so years of establishing contacts between the Asha'man and Reds, the Aes Sedai learned that he was not one for them to talk to. Three hundred years had not made him forget his capture and near gentling at their hands, a mere two months after attaining the rank of Asha'man. They said that, even though the taint had been cleansed, he was still touched by its foulness and must be “made safe”.
He didn't tell them of the Others who lived inside his head. They wouldn't believe him that they'd been there to protect him as a child while in captivity. But he'd been indiscreet in conversing with them aloud where someone could see him, and that was enough for the White Tower. He found himself again kidnapped and taken away from his new life. But their mistake on the journey to Tar Valon to carry out his sentence had been putting him in a cage. The Solider would not allow him to exist in such a state again. Even shielded, he was a force to be reckoned with, killing one Red sister with his hands and knocking two others out. That had been enough to weaken their shield sufficiently to tear his way free of the rest of them, and he fled on foot into the Aiel Waste.
Remembering those days, meeting Jhanic and Kieron, convincing them to travel to the Black Tower with him...that had helped him regain a sense of balance in his mind. Brokering a relationship with the mysterious Aiel aided in smoothing over the high tension between the two Towers over his illegal capture and deadly escape. Lex answered all of the Aiel's strange questions, and they taught him more about honor than he'd ever learned from his “noble” father. But he never found a way to trust a Red sister, and the feeling was generally mutual. In fact, he was quite certain the only reason he still lived was that he managed to consolidate all of those voices in his head down into four: the Solider, the Smith, the Gentleman, and the Hidden. The transition from one to another smoothed and, eventually, most never even noticed that a slightly different pair of eyes watched them when someone new took over.
“Oh this is perfect,” Lord Amperin declared as he sheathed the sword. “Truly a weapon my son can grow into and with.”
The Gentleman returned to the fore, a proud smile in his face as he met the Andoran's eyes. “I'm pleased you find it so.”
“Oh yes, you definitely live up to your reputation.” He handed over a bag of coin that felt heavier than expected. “With something extra for completing it do quickly.”
Lex bowed his head in gratitude. He liked such easily impressed customers. “It was a pleasure, sir.” They made a little small talk before Amperin departed. Lex jingled the purse for a moment, lips pursed as he considered what he wanted to do. I wonder what that Katty is up to, he mused as a devilish grin spread across his face, making him look as youthful as the day he stepped foot on this very plod despite the pure white hair on his head and face. Yes, he'd worked hard today and deserved a treat. Katty it was.