View source for Lex/Description

A tall, robustly built woman in her late 20s, lex Andrius' life journey has clearly taken her far from the European enclaves from which her Caucasian ancestors once sailed for America. Sandblasted by a recent stint in the Middle East, that benighted place has left an imprint not only on pale skin roasted by desert suns, but on sharp blue eyes darkened by the crimson tides of war. But it's more than the memories enshrined in flesh - the pale scars on cheek and brow and throat, the sardonic quirk of a mouth permanently twisted in cynicism, the light-brown hair ritualistically acclimated to abiding but an inch from her skull - that heralds a life in the radioactive glow of the abyss. it's the way she moves, the controlled velocity of someone accustomed to putting walls at her back; it's the way her gaze quarters rooms, cataloguing faces with unconscious obsession; and it's the rugged hands that never stop twitching for something, anything, to hold onto. These are why she is an open, battered book.

Favoring the casual anonymity of roughened jeans, distressed boots and pale t-shirts, enshrouded by an unzipped leather jacket when the weather warrants, it's something of a surprise that Lex is one of those people who occupies more space than she ought to. There's mass there, certainly, in the thickness of wide shoulders, in the hardiness of runner's thighs, but it's more attitudinal than physical, as if, in complete contrast to the woman's cooly controlled demeanor, venomous whispers of darkness and danger emanate from her, registering on the radars of those who make a study of her. It doesn't even seem conscious, as if it were nothing more than the intimidating shadow of memories now subsumed by history best forgotten.