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Dedicated Locke Lemain

Locke is thin and lithe, fair, and seems to be almost entirely composed of clean lines, planes, and angles - until you get to his face. A perfect oval, pristine, regal - a work of art, in it's own right. He had gray eyes, similar to the coloration of a thundercloud moments before it bursts during the summer. After his accident, one was discolored due to pigment being burned as a result of the loss of control - it's now white, with the exception of his pupil. His lips are thin, and are seemingly always slightly disapproving, although he makes no outright effort to appear that way - he's just a gallant soul that was born naturally condescending. Even after his accident, that remained.

He's exceptionally pretty, but at the same time, so abhorrently cold and removed that one would never actually notice how gorgeous a boy he really is, especially when you pair his social participation with his flawed eye. Even with those striking issues, under the initial moment of contact, many people who see him over the course of time suddenly find themselves admiring him for his beauty - an act that always surprises the hell out of them.

As far as weapons proficiency is concerned, he's rather a whiz with a spear, but he has no recollection of how he got so good. For the past few years, his spear, Prodigy, has been his only worldly possession, aside from the clothes on his back.  

Locke has a predisposition to what, at the surface, appears to be stoicism. It is not, however. The tranquil aura that is always about him, the aire of apathy is simply a mask for his coolly calculating mind. He is a born tactician, and was known in his hometown and most outlying areas as a defiantly precocious youth, with a remarkably brilliant intellect.

For the most part, he "allows" those around him to do as they wish, so long as they do not impede him from doing the same; this is not because he's a "live and let live" type of person, rather he finds people easier to manipulate when they've been existentially unaware that he was going about making them pawns.

He is an unemotional militarist, at his most basic - Confident, reliable, ambitious, level headed, tactical, and ruthless.

His trademark phrase, though only said once, is "Though I may turn my back on this world - it may never turn it's back on me."

The smoke rose in a single column - dark, black. The air was thick with the scent of burning cherrywood, rife with hostile sentiment, as well. The bodies at the steps were of his father, his brother - sister and mother. All who lived in his house were broken, dashed to ribbons; their house was accosted with arrows and spears.

The Aiel stood - all armed. The men all glared, angry, scared, vengeful, though they knew not why. All had swords, some had knives - still others had both.

Locke did not budge; he did not respond to their threats, nor did he make any move of aggression; these people massacred had massacred his family; he was not angry. These people had taken his townsmen as tools to become wealthy; he was not distraught. They were but common bandits.

His gray eye, and his white, were calm. He surveyed the mob that wanted to kill him because he could channel as a man might inspect a piece of meat, before buying it at market. They were of no concern to him, anymore. This place was no longer where he needed to be, to become what he was. His family was unfortunate, to be sure, but he would have his vengeance at a later time - not directly, but through the nightmares these people would have, over having killed innocent people.

"Move. All of you." Locke's words were not to be questioned; he'd taken ont he tone he always did, when it was obvious that he was in complete control of the situation - he was always cold, but this sound, to the ears, was truly ice. "Now." His long black hair, rich, straight, kept back in a ponytail, guttered suddenly in the breeze. His boyish features were set; they would move, or he would kill them - it was simple. The spear in his hands was devilish in its simplicity - the pole was thinner than most, black, forged steel. The bottom was tipped with a diamond-shaped spike - the blade was minimalistically forged - the best steel, the best smith, no adornments, all business. The spear's name was Prodigy - named thusly, because it was forged for it's owner.

 "Get the little goat kisser!"

Locke stood at the foot of the hill, the grass shifting lightly in the stiff breeze of early morning. His spear hadn't killed all those men; the elements imbued therein were not of earthly nature. He didn't know where else to go.

 The Black Tower was only a few more miles off - he could feel it, the activity - Chanelling - in the distance. It was behind his eyes, under his skin.

This is where I have come... to grow into what I am.

 "Are they ready for such a student?"