close your eyes;

[wingborne]

Player Information
Name: Scarfle
Timezone: PST
Personal Journal: long_scarves
Players Contact/AIM/MSN/YAHOO: AIM: scarflelaria
Email Address: wingborne@gmail.com
Former/Other Characters in the RP: N/A

Character Information
Name: Arthur Kirkland
Canon Origin/Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Teaching Position and why it suits them: History of Magic; He's the type of guy who lives in the past (literally!) and besides, he's the stuffy house down the street on Hollow's Eve that gives out apples instead of treats. It's a boring subject that he loves, and everybody else hates! Beautiful. A-Also history, hetalia, ahaha.
Gender: Male
Age: 37
Blood status: Pureblood

Personality: Arthur Kirkland is a troubled man, though it wouldn't appear like that at first glance. He's obsessive, possessive, paranoid, grudging, never says what he means, and can even be sadistic (yo ho ho). He claims himself a high-brow gentleman, but his language quickly says otherwise. Furthermore, he's the ruckus down at the pub that nobody wants to deal with, and can most often be found snapping out insults. But despite his rough and rowdy exterior, there's a loneliness and a famine for friendship and connective relationships. He's faithful to the friends who befriend him, and will never let go Jack for the ones who he hates. In other words, he just wants a friend. He embroiders and insists on a mysterious race of fairies that nobody's heard or seen, but he will talk to from time to time. But despite his tears and aggravation, he is still a competent, capable man, who strives to do his best, struggling to keep his connections in a world where children leave and never come back. Also, his food really sucks.
Canon Background: Countries as people! Who would've thunk. England, representative of the United Kingdom, is a powerful country who a la Coldplay once controlled a large portion of the world. Though many of his colonies left, he still remained a powerful force. The canon takes place mostly during World War II, in the battle of the Allies and the Axis. He remains somewhat the straight man and somewhat the eccentricity throughout the series.
Background (AU!Canon; HP): Begin at the beginning, so says Lewis Carroll. Arthur Kirkland was born a Pureblood in some mansion in some place at some time. He had older brothers who bullied him, but he found a happy pastime in the depths of the forest, where many mythical creatures came to comfort him. Though he never had doubt of their existence, he would later learn that these same mythical beings were actually unknown to the lexicon--but, unfortunately, nobody else could see them except for the occasional selected few. He had a twin sister, Abigail Kirkland, to whom he rarely saw. At Hogwarts, it was little better, but Arthur achieved top grades and all that great stuff. Blah blah blah and more importantly, he met Gwen. They married soon after Hogwarts, and they lived happily in the brief period of time. But during the birth of twin boys, she passed away. Though this deeply jarred Arthur, he was determined to raise the boys as well as he could by himself. Matthew and Alfred were completely and absolutely precious to him, but working alone was hard work. When they were younger, Matthew and Alfred were both obedient and adorable, and Arthur adored on Alfred in particular. There were some areas of definite suckage, such as buying math textbooks for him at an incredibly young age, but undoubtedly, he doted on his children.

He found Peter at a young age of two in a dumpster what and took him in, affectionately, and even gave him a stuffed unicorn because they exist and they were his friends and yes that's not the proper behavior of unicorns but these unicorns were nice and friendly and around this period of time, Alfred was beginning to shoot up and demand more and more attention. The adorable obedience had given way to fighting his authority, and due to his rough nature, he fought back and demanded their complete obedience once more. Around this time, his twin sister, Abigail, came to him with a young son, James. She spent most of her time in the hospital, but he was glad for James' company, and tended to his children as best as he could, in the best way he could. Even if James played terrible pranks with firecrackers stop that right now young man, he tried to teach James how to live in the British society. He even began to finally grow to know his sister in the hospital. Then she died.

Manic, unhappy, reminded deeply of Gwen's death, sorrowful over his sister's death, he began to finally reach the climax of the arguments between him and Alfred, the most rambunctious son by far, even if Peter was the one who set fire to such and such. Their squabbles accumulated to one Christmas in Alfred's fifth year, when his son finally ran off. Death after death, his clench on his children's freedom was iron-clad and absolute, desperate, pleading, but tight nevertheless. But after the metaphoric loss of his son, that clench only tightened. In a fit of War of 1812-ness, he set about to impress Alfred leaving his job at the Ministry of Magic and taught at Hogwarts, keeping an eye on his sons. With shady reasoning, he applied for the Transfiguration job and became the Professor. But he left to do some mysterious business, to which he never told anyone, though his wife's grave was heavily visited during this period of time.

He returned to Hogwarts, a mixture of repentance and sadistic anger. Unable to loosen the feelings of loss and fear, he set to a new teaching position. Currently, he is around a point of his life where he wants to move on and acknowledge his sons as men, though constrained by reminders of their actual age and actions. Erratically moving between warmth and coldness, he attempts to fill his void of loneliness.

Sample Interaction Post in First Person: All right, listen up, I'm only going to say this once, and I already know that half of you will ask me the same exact questions again. Yes, you may write on your scrolls, yes, include the date, yes include your bloody name at the top unless you want me to give the credit to the dump. Bloody hell, this is a terrible mess. Are you all children? With blocks for ears?

Now, first order of business, turn all your homework in a neat pile on my desk. If I see another bloody dump like last time, I won't even bother reading them. And believe me, half of your scrolls wouldn't even make it to the toilet roll on your bathroom stalls. My office hours are quite clear, and if you need any extra help, you're free to come by--and without your loud crowd of friends. And you might as well come by. If all you starry-eyed wish-makers want to work for the Ministry of Magic, then you've got to learn to make connections, and I'm making you the best offer you can get.

Second order of business--somebody left an apple on my desk. I-I mean, I'm not pleased or anything if it was for me--it's just--it's just that I enjoy eating apples, that's all. I wasn't happy about it or anything. I-I mean, if you can't even tell me who you are, th-then... then... oh, bloody hell.

Sample Interaction Post in Third Person: His eyes were slowly closing.

He was aware of it--the drowsiness that first crept behind his suddenly heavy eyelids, to the numbness of his fingers, as if his arm had a life of its own, and it was a rather dull life that didn't go out to party and stayed inside and married a proper wife and had two point five children. Whatever the bloody statistics were, any road--he wouldn't know. He started when the needle pricked his finger suddenly, and swore vividly enough to fill the room with colorful language.

"Bloody fucking hell," he said angrily, tossing the embroidery kit onto his sofa. The project of the stitched unicorn abandoned in favor of running water, he sluggishly stood up, only to knock down a small pile of embroidery magazines that he had subscribed to with especial vigor. Before he even knew it, another line of obscenities escaped between his teeth, but he, too, abandoned the magazine mission to get a handkerchief for his small wound.

"Fucking arsehole," he muttered to himself, pulling out a dark-colored handkerchief and holding it to his finger. He surveyed the scene unhappily. "Wanker, pillock, fucking maggot--" He wasn't even sure who he was cursing, but they tumbled out quickly one after another as his frustration built at the thought of cleaning up the mess.

A rustle in the corner caught his attention, but when he turned around, he could see a first year student fleeing from his open door. He stood there silently for a moment, handkerchief still tightly wrapped around his hand.

Two more comfortable curses escaped him before he managed to finally shut his mouth. "Bloody hell."

Magic Words?: Dali Moustache