The Inheritance Game Character Bin

Name:
Archer Theroux
Gender:
Male
Age:
32
Appearance:
Wide, inquisitive blue eyes are the staple of Archer's ensemble, with a face that makes every expression, even the negative, give off an endearing quality and a softness that he sometimes loathes to admit to. He smiles with his teeth when the occasion hits him and rolls his eyes with every feasible part of his body, palms up and splayed if they're free. These subtle nuances are what make Archer who he is, that often separate himself from the masks he hides behind. These are genuine expressions, ones that leak into everyday conversation or even alone, coupled with an exasperated sigh. It's subconscious, but something that grounds Archer and who he is, rather than what life has destined he become. They are the few things that break the stony demeanor, the stoic expression he worked so hard to achieve, and at times of unrest, he relishes in knowing this and in seeing it first hand in the people he meets. Added to this, his voice is a low timber, the rasp in his throat most noticeable early in the morning, in its gravelly tone; it's concise and comes with a keen grasp on diction, which is sometimes abused for sarcastic purposes. There's a lilt in his voice, a kind of assuring vibe that rolls off his tongue that can turn soothing in one instant and hard and heavy the next, distinct despite the stoicism he tends to drip into his voice—effective for the deadpan snark that seems to follow in his wake.

The person under everything often dictates his attire and his look, all form fitting and regal, to compliment his stature and healthy, toned physique. His closet consists mostly of different shades of black and grey, with patterns that very from simple stripes to simple solid colors. It lacks a variety he craves in his daily life, but he more than makes up for that in the assortment of ties and bow ties and suspenders that come in a multi-layered package that his service provides, even if the looks he garnered are anything but flattering. They're cheesy, fancy, pretentious, and everything in between and usually help identify the current mood of the day, or at least of the morning. When required, his hair is usually styled in a soft push back, bangs hanging only slightly above his forehead and hair coming out in short waves. The dark tones of his clothes often come in contrast with the flush of his skin, a radiant golden that he takes more pride in than necessary—it is just skin, after all—and the electric blue of his eyes that seem only amplified by the dark contrast. His complexion is healthy and vibrant, despite his expressions, but coupled with a tiredness only really seen in bags under his eyes and the lines of worry that define his face or the deep callousness of his hands.
Relation to Christopher Lovelle:
Friend, Employee, Part-Time Confidant
Occupation:
Butler
Immediate family members:
Danielle Theroux; Mother; Deceased
Lawrence Theroux; Brother; 26
Anne Theroux; Sister; 27
Michael Theroux; Fraternal Twin; 32
Personality:
There's always something to cover up. In the face of duty, Archer is as anyone expects, polite, concise, and with everyone's best interest in mind. The only time Archer can satisfyingly say that he is regal and proud—back straight, chin high, and with a welcoming smile to greet guests. During work, there's a deliberateness to everything Archer does and a purpose in every footfall that he holds accountable. This is usually where years of parenting siblings comes quite in handy (off-work, he describes his job as being a glorified nanny). Aside from the polite smile he offers, Archer is often depicted as expressionless and hard to discern with a penchant for doing exactly as told and living up to his employer's namesake. When representing a very powerful, very wealthy man, there comes an air of subtlety involved in his interactions with people, actions and words always open to interpretation and without much passion behind them—almost to the point of utter, deadpan humor. The dry kind that leaves an ambiguous taste in people's mouths. Archer acts his part thought, willingly so and would determine it is what makes him happy. Or, at least a part of the various sums that make his whole.

Shedding off the airs of duty and regality, Archer presents himself with more honesty, or at least with a different mask that people can separate from that of duty. This is key, he'd propose, in giving people different sides of the same coin. There's still a confidence inherent in him, a purpose in his movements, but it's weighed down by the relaxed posture and complete lack of secrecy in the irritation that occasionally addles his voice. Of course, that's only when dealing with strangers outside of his line of work. Years of separating himself from two lives, that of his job and then of his responsibility as caretaker to his siblings, meant a more cautious Archer, with a propensity to bite, even at the hint of disrespect and agitation. And he does so with a sharp tongue and expressions dripping with exasperation and sarcasm. It doesn't much help that Archer contains a vindictive streak inside him, a device to direct his anger in subtle ways, ways he learned working to provide services to strangers most of his life. On the sharp end of the stick that is Archer, he'll find effective ways of shutting down hostility with an ambiguous air surrounding him. It hurts just as well as a punch to the face, but is all the more satisfying to the wry Archer and his knowing smile.

Of course, Archer has secrets to hide himself, things that the duality he wears effectively keep from the light of day. He's a caring individual, that part seeps through the cracks on a daily basis, who finds joy in the minuscule moments of his life. There is a genuineness to his actions and words, even to the front he puts up. Sincerity had always been a thing Archer took easy to and respect was something he seemed to value the most in his life. A kind that sneers and scowls at any eyes that looked down with pity and the kind willing to sacrifice quite a bit to defend against outright transgressions. The humor used to diffuse situations, to wave away problems and issues is different to the kind Archer relishes in, the kind that lights up faces in the room. There's a sharp difference in maintaining it that Archer has pondered and repressed since the dawn of his humanity; one lies in necessity and the other in selfishness. There is a passion in Archer that leaves him standing, rather than sitting, doing, rather than having done. And sometimes moving forward and never looking back helps keep perspective on wants, rather than responsibilities. The past leaves a trail to highlight mistakes, rather than simple moments and it's often harder to avert the gaze when asked to face it. He prefers to keep going, even if that means bottling certain aspects of himself up.
Biography:
The Chicago life, all grit and grime, didn't contain the fascination saddled with it, even just the name, after countless years of hard luck and misfortune. The spark of city life, however present it was in visitors or suburban families in small towns, lacked in the heart of most natives, swallowed by the humdrum of daily life—a hard life. There came a moment where, just as the small town folk ached for adventure, Archer felt the urge for something less hurried, calmer, and most of all easy. A better sense of accomplishment; a life not so meaningless; something with a goal to strive toward that didn't lie down a stretch of dark tunnel with no end in sight; all things Archer had hoped for, at a young age; all things that were crushed under the heels of society and low-class accommodations, necessities. To the point where school no longer mattered as much as getting food on the table—"Whatever means necessary, Arch." It was a phrase he'd heard all too often, with a solemn resignation in his mother's eyes. He never realized, until now, what that truly meant.

"I did what I had to."

"To survive?"

"So that they could survive."

No pride came with what life thrust him into, what circumstance dictated he do. It's never a topic Archer broaches often, unless it was a necessity. Usually, it wasn't, so he made sure that part of himself was kept under strict lock and key. Of course, people often equate letting a past define oneself to weakness. But, to Archer, there's a humor to thinking about how there could be no Archer Theroux without all the regrets and mistakes and traumas. And thinking about it either puts a weary smile on his face, or a slight dulling of his eyes that he could only sum up as acquiescence—resignation—that ended in a heavy head tilt. Heavy in the sense that it still, even after all these years, weighed him down. These are just thoughts, however, that he can't find the strength to put words too, especially in the midst of complete strangers. Archer appreciates secrets, like everyone else, but particularly his own, to which he shares with a pen, a cup of tea, and a journal.

Early in his years, before the responsibility and the mistakes, Archer aspired to become a writer, the kind born of poverty, with a story to tell. With thousands of stories to tell. And the evidence was there, in his cursive print, that he'd only conjure great things for great people to read—sowing stories together like fine, silk threads. Writing came naturally and for his enjoyment, until confidence swelled among downtrodden siblings. Under a cover, flashlight burning heat into pallid, hungry faces, Archer's writing came to life and he relished in the twist of emotions that controlled his sibling's features. That he caused that. At that moment, when thoughts becaome ink and ink became words, Archer felt a surge of desire in the deepest part of his stomach, twisting knots in his abdomen. His first ache, a kind of heartbreak he'd come to find comfort in.

The second came in the form of a proposal.

The third came in the beeps of a heart monitor.

And the rest—he simply stopped counting, when it became evident that these first three weren't going to be the last.

But, there was good in his life, things that Archer appreciated as much as the wrenching in his gut. They were always tiny moments until he'd turned over his twenty-fourth birthday. He'd like to say it was his twenty-fourth, though he suspected it had come at a much later time in his life, when he knew he was already lost. Archer just wasn't expecting to be found, lighting a cigarette under a lamppost, tired eyes that betrayed the wry smirk on his face. Exactly then was the moment he came to know Mr. Lovelle and his quiet stoicism, a mere hand wave at his proposition. He'd packed that night, what little he had to, and left the fleeting lights of Chicago, determined that the next morning brought a fortune upon the siblings he left behind—a literal one. The pounding in his chest he'd accounted to anxiety and a fear that never left the pallid expression on his features. The next few weeks were his to adjust, the mansion not surprisingly overwhelming to the point he'd numbly chewed his finger nails clean. And the week after that he'd been trained and supervised and given the run down of his new job. That didn't come as much of a surprise; Lovelle hadn't brought him there without a purpose, a way to repay him for his altruism. Though he didn't quite expect it as a job offer. They'd agreed on terms, or at least Lovelle had made the terms and assumed he'd agree to them. Desperation, Archer had thought, was probably what Lovelle saw that night and it always brought shame to his face in the form of tiny pinpricks and a red that spread from his collarbone, straight to his forehead. Of course, what Archer had first said when entering what he assumed was the most expensive car in the world, was between him and the master of the house. He'd never utter a hint as to what their conversation entailed.

What came with the job was unexpected: food, shelter, and whatever fancied Archer's desires, which weren't much but something to write on and a phone call, here and there. In a sense, Archer was his adopted child, one of the few individuals to have been given love and life, except he differed from the rest, in that he was, first and foremost, the assistant, the butler, whatever came to the mind first. He'd been offered a chance at the rights of estate and money, but refused, preferring a secure job and a home, instead.

And that pen and paper he'd been asking for. A laptop, after all, couldn't quite compare.
Miscellaneous:
Owns a journal!
Is an aspiring writer.
Has a penchant for bringing in strays, to the humor of Lovelle before passing and the frustrations of the staff at hand.
Prefers exotic cuisine, but will almost always settle on cheap, Chinese take-out.
His favorite book is the Wizard of Oz and second favorite is A Clockwork Orange.
And yes, I am deliberately keeping some of his past hidden. But I think I made some hints here and there. Hopefully, it doesn't scream too loudly in my writing. It's something intimate to be revealed intimately; a CS is anything but intimate.

The Inheritance Game Character Bin

Lilacs

Sixsmith Left half of Lancelot (It's the better half)