Post by Arthur Kirkland on Oct 9, 2013 22:50:06 GMT
その日人類は思い出したXXXヤツらに支配されていた恐怖をXXX鳥籠の中に囚われていた屈辱を On that day, mankind received a grim reminder... Arthur Kirkland Age: 23 Gender: Male Ethnicity: English Rank: Corporal of the Scouting Legion (I believe there’s one slot left? Let me know if that isn’t the case and I’ll make the appropriate changes.) Birthday: April 23rd Physical Appearance: Standing at a not-too-terrible 177 centimetres, Arthur is a tad bit shorter than average, though it's something that he hardly gives a second thought. Throughout the years, his body has grown lean with wiry muscle since becoming a soldier, and has overall taken on a much healthier appearance since his childhood and adolescent years. He’ll never be the bulky sort, as he was severely malnourished as a child, which also may have had a hand in somewhat stunting his growth. Arthur’s body has never been soft, all sharp angles and scrawny features when he was younger, while his palms have always retained a poor man’s callouses. His pale skin is the kind that easily burns while never being able to retain a proper tan. What’s worse; however, is that it reveals any rush of blood to his face, which does very little for him whenever trying to hide the sudden swell of embarrassment. What he lacks in physical size; however, he likes to think that he more than makes up for in presence. His oftentimes harsh, commanding, prideful, and no-nonsense disposition tends to give exactly the sort of reaction he desires. There are numerous scars throughout his body, mostly from scuffles or mishaps throughout his childhood. Whatever their origin, Arthur’s reluctant to ever speak about them, as he is with most intimate details of his personal history. Some of the remembered pain behind those marks have yet to be forgiven and forgotten, and thus they are still unsettling. And of course, anything that is unsettling is never open for discussion. His hair is a pale, ashy blond, a trait that he received from his mother, one of the few things that he can distinctly remember about her that isn’t riddled with unspoken bitterness. The clear green of his eyes by default must have belonged to his father, whoever that may be. Aside from the shape, there is little in his gaze that resembles his mother’s. His eyes are perhaps the most disconcerting thing about him—they tend to be sharp, rigid, and seem to be desperately searching for something—like a scavenging vagrant who grew up on a different definition of humanity, still trying very hard to survive in it. His features still have the vibrancy of youth, albeit quite worn and hardened. His mouth is thin and always seems to be pressed into a tight frown or a deepened scowl if something displeases him, which can be often. It’s very rare to see him sport a genuine smile, untainted with mockery or disdain. Distinguishing Features: The most prominent feature, unfortunately, are his heavy brows, accentuated even further by them naturally being a much darker shade than his pale head of hair. This also tends to bring the attention to the eyes, as the brows are set against the sharp green of his gaze. Personality: Arthur is a complicated individual in the sense that he’s usually fairly vigilant about what he presents to others and the occasional contradictions that may arise whenever his carefully constructed, socially acceptable mask slips. On the outside, he exudes confidence befitting of someone who is used to being heard and well-regarded. This may come across as arrogance; oftentimes the line between confidence and pride are blurred for Arthur. He is aware of his tendency with protecting and nurturing his pride and makes no apologies for it. His temper also has the capacity of being rather explosive, though he still actually has a fuse compared to those he grew up with. Though this is also something that has developed with time, a measure of tolerance for the things that annoy him as well as a restraint of sorts to keep his temper in check is absolutely vital for the position he currently holds. Although he has calmed considerably since his teenage years, he can still be terribly argumentative and irritable. When given the chance, he’s quick to anger and strike, though a general sense of constant irritability is his baseline. He wasn’t always like this. As a child, in fact, he was much milder, if not timid in the shadows of his older brothers, preferring to live within an imagined reality rather than confronting their cruelty. Until he grew old enough to finally hold his own, running did tend to be easier as a child, and as a general rule, much more effective. But with time, he grew into the role of a fighter, and a rather vengeful one at that. No longer giving in and accepting what had been given to him, fighting tooth and nail, no matter how long it took to accomplish his ends. Surrendering fell out of his terms of acceptance and an obstinate and scrappy-natured individual emerged. His obstinacy is an entirely different facet of his personality to take into consideration. Even if beaten to the lowest of lows, he’ll never fail to try again, to try until he is no longer able to rise. Arthur has always been fiercely determined, especially in the wake of tragedy. As he has tends to have no trouble with pushing forward, he also has very little restraint with his language whenever not in the presence of company where he feels the need to filter it. His language is used rather freely. If he finds someone disagreeable, then he has no problem with letting it be known with details to spare. With that being said, he has the capability of being truthfully rude if something is painfully obvious and needs to be pointed out. He’s grown as harsh as his environment. He was born in the gutter of society and a part of that will always define his nature, no matter how far apart he sets himself from those roots and no matter how ‘civilised’ he may become. He changes when his environment demands it, choosing to be calm and falling into the world’s definition of ‘civlised’ whenever it serves him best. Having ownership to this rather punitive exterior; however, there is also a counterpart. Whenever there is something or someone that Arthur takes a liking to, he can be quite the possessive little bugger. Holding onto that small taste of happiness that he’s never really experienced can have an impeccably strong hold over him. In some ways, Arthur can be notoriously nostalgic with the few good memories that he did experience among the bad ones. He finds himself yearning for those moments time and time again, hoping to be subjected to them more often in the future in order to outweigh the negative experiences. Arthur does tend to retain his pessimistic view on life, always preparing for the worst instead of hoping for the best. An optimistic outcome may never happen unless someone does something worthwhile to make it happen. Arthur’s never relied on others, so why would he rely on something as inane as fate or random circumstances for a better outcome? The only person that he that he can truly rely on is himself. That’s how it’s always been for the majority of his young life, so why would that change? Arthur does believe in having a sense of decorum. Despite his sometimes unconventional ways with handling things, he believes that people are kept in better line when they follow the rules. Simple rules of common decency and behaviour is really not that much to ask for, though he does hold rather high expectations. In lieu of all of this, a shorter explanation would be that Arthur can be on the stubborn, volatile side, but can also be steadfast when he needs to be. Emerging from the unfortunate circumstances of his childhood, he grew to crave stability and strength. Some form of this desired stability came through his dedication to certain rules of decency and expectations that he believes forms a strong and proper society. Overall, he may be described as irritable, unapologetic, coarse, with a hidden soft side reserved for few. History: Arthur did not grow up privileged, nor did he grow up with what had at first seemed like traditional components of a family. He was born in an outlying rural community within the West district of Wall Maria. Living within their small, isolated community among the farmlands was harsh. While it wasn’t nearly as infested with crime as other parts, the people did not live well, finding little profit for how long and hard they toiled with the earth to produce something worthwhile. In addition to being poor rural folk, if not properly prepared to deal with such threats, some families within the community were victims of occasional vagrant thieves and even the sporadic sludge of traffickers, collecting everything from meager supplies to the valuable market of human trinkets for the ever-respectable privileged folk who could afford them. Lacklustre farming communities such as these were easy targets for its poverty, the lack of proper defence, and an abundance of people who wouldn’t be missed—and in some cases, not even reported as missing. Being the youngest of five, Arthur had a rather rough and generally world-savvy assortment of siblings, the oldest being the strongest among them. Because of this, the Kirklands remained unscathed for the most part, though the looming threat was always resting in the back of their minds. Arthur had never met and continues to harbour no knowledge of his father. His mother was fairly secretive about the entire matter and whenever asked about the details of the missing half of their parentage, her expression grew pallid and tight, the veneer of impenetrable stubborn resolve. Arthur at times suspected that his oldest brother might’ve been privy to something, for he often came to their mother’s defence whenever some of the younger siblings ever dared to approach the subject. Looking among the differences between him and his brothers, he sometimes even wondered if they had different fathers. Whatever the truth was, he never discovered it. As soon as he was old enough to walk and carry some semblance of weight, he was put to work just like everyone else, to ensure their survival. While out gathering supplies with two of the other younger siblings, at the age of 7, he came back to their meager home in shambles and their mother missing. The children could do very little about it as they cleaned the mess and hoped for her eventual return, though the oldest took it upon himself to carry on the missing patriarch and matriarch roles for his four siblings. Though it was commendable of him to try to care for all of them, the oldest brother was also privy to an explosive temper and often resorted to using fists whenever something hadn’t been done correctly or if he felt the need to be a little rough. Arthur endured, though he received his fair share of harsh treatment from both of the older siblings. In lieu of that, Arthur learned to be quick on his feet, to be creative with avoidance or even with words, to elude them. One argument and fight became too much, however. At the age of thirteen, Arthur fought back, facing his brother with as much tenaciousness as a cornered, frightful animal. Coming away from it with his usual bruises, both to his body and to his ego, he gathered what meager possessions he had, which was almost laughably small, and slipped away the following night. He never looked back that evening, though since then, has constantly fought the flare of desire to see them again. Arthur lived from village to village, scavenging and doing what he could to survive until he reached the wall, knowing that making his way into more populated areas would be more fruitful for a pickpocketing thief. Having grown up in poverty, he was used to eating very little with no reliable roof over his head, barely scraping by. He did this for a little under a year, unknowingly passing his fourteenth birthday. Misfortune struck; however, as it would for anyone living in such a way when Arthur became gravely sick. Delirious with fever, he found himself slumped against the city seamstress’s home, unbeknownst at the time, using a bit of the roof for poor protection against the weather. He doesn’t remember the shout of surprise, or the soft arms around his body, or even the curious absence of the outside chill and wetness. The recently widowed, middle-aged seamstress had taken him in soon after the discovery just outside her doorstep and had even called for a doctor as soon as she felt his burning skin. The woman had a heart of gold, allowing Arthur the former bed of her full-grown son who had just moved out to enlist as a soldier. He stayed on bed rest for a week until he was well enough to move about. A unique sort of affection grew between them during his recovery and woman came to insist upon him staying, exchanging the usual price of room and board with being her assistant. The woman’s most valuable gift in Arthur’s eyes was the scant hope that humanity was perhaps not as rotten as he had initially believed. A faint glimmer of sorely lacking optimism. It was through her that he also learned to sew and embroider, learned to read and write (as she was a remarkably learned woman for her trade), how to work with numbers, and even developed a certain fondness for her favourite beverage, black tea. Arthur proved to be quite the intellect with how quickly he absorbed the material he was given and for how passionately he yearned to learn more. He devoured books, good literature being a particularly guilty pleasure of his. By the age of 16 he went through a bit of a devil-may-care phase. He led an increasingly reckless life as he left his temporary home, choosing to make his own way through unconventional means, such as odd-end jobs with a string of individuals. He discovered commodities such as weak liquor, sharing all sorts of pleasures with barely met acquaintances, and even the occasional indulgence of a slip of opium. This careless lifestyle came to a halt; however, when he once again hit rock bottom, having very little in his pockets and the substantially heavier weight of guilt for leaving something steady for living on the edge of something precariously exciting. He was 18 when Wall Maria had been breached, and it was that event of sobriety he inadvertently needed. As often as he cursed his family and told himself that he yearned to forget them, the revelation that the only family he had left in the world may have been taken so violently shook him far more deeply than he anticipated. Feeling more alone than before despite being on his own for the past six years, he decided to enlist soon afterwards and began life at Training Camp. As with anything, Arthur worked hard to excel where he could, which was limited to some of the endurance and strategic aspects of training. Though he was quick and made excellent progress with the maneuver gear, his strength was nothing noteworthy compared to the others, only a little better than average for his age and underwhelming stature. Despite these flaws, he devoted himself to his training enough to make it into the mid-range of the ten percent. In lieu of this success; however, he felt little indecision with the seemingly less desirable Scouting Legion. Having experienced a sense of loss and a desire to escape this walled prison, no matter how severed his attachment had been with the region that was infiltrated, he disregarded considering the others. After moving into the Scouting Legion Headquarters, while still engaging in specified training for the field, Arthur was able to see what had been his home beyond the wall and even a bit further behind Wall Maria. As the years passed, Arthur grew into the natural role of a leader, his no-nonsense, workable strategies combined with a consistently remarkable performance were noticed, whether called for within the heat of an encounter or beneath the scrutiny of higher ranks. Proving capable of steadfast fidelity with his peers while efficiently, yet firmly handling others within a group, all within the time spent serving the Scouting Legion. Through these hard-earned accomplishments, he received a promotion to the rank of Corporal, a position that he hadn’t necessarily expected, but grew to fill as the years passed. As for Arthur’s motivation, morality and justice have not necessarily been a priority of his, at least not to the same extent as those who tend to enlist in the Scouting Legion. For Arthur, it’s difficult not to feel trapped within the walls, which he often likens it to being no better than living in an elaborate cage. Being able to venture beyond the walls, even if it’s hurdling into the fray of danger with no guarantee that he would make it back. He still yearns to see what’s beyond, to see the rest of the world, to voyage to remarkable landmarks that are only available to them through depictions in stories and books. Rather than living a long, comfortable live, he’d prefer a shorter, albeit worthwhile one beyond the prison of their existence. Likes:
Dislikes:
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Weaknesses:
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Quirks:
Skillset: Physical Strength: 6/10 Intelligence: 9/10 Teamwork: 5/10 Confidence: 8/10 Agility: 9/10 Roleplay Sample: (Nationverse Roleplay) Hic incepit pestis: ”Here begins the plague.” The green and beauty of the land seemed to almost wither and sag beneath the heavy stench of death—laced among the bodies, metal, and burgundy tainted flesh that littered it. This wasn’t the first time that England’s rivers ran red and he was most certain that this wouldn’t be his last. War and scuffles between the brothers that subsisted here seemed almost natural with how often they occurred. None of them compared to this—at least, thus far. This was not the first of England’s losses, nor the last of France’s victories. This battle, however, was over, and England hadn’t won. There could have been so many reasons for this defeat. So many. At least a dozen possibilities—France was better prepared, England had grown weary from fighting Denmark and Norway barely a week before, or even simply the fact that he was still so young, hardly even prepubescent, and lacked the skill and strength to fight a grown man. And yet none of these explanations came to mind. None of them formulated in the young nation’s thoughts as he stood, pale-faced and numb, among the numbers of his dead—standing in ill-fitting clothing, armour, and leather padding. All that went through his mind was the resounding pain of losing something so precious—so vital. He ached everywhere. Already, the sickening warmth of blood could be felt pooling beneath his skin where large welts and bruises were rapidly darkening. He ignored the pain as the fierce adrenaline slowly weaned, barely noticeable in some places and absolutely burning everywhere else. Of course the part that hurt the most was the tender pressure beneath his breastbone where youthful pride subsided—stinging and spreading like poison through his veins, leaving only a chilling detachment in its wake. None had ever conquered him. Not entirely, anyway. Norway, Denmark, and Germany had only impressed themselves upon him; bled into his being, his language, and his people. It was nothing compared to what France had just accomplished—nothing compared to what that foreigner was going to do to him. The two of them had met before. A while ago when the long-haired bastard had once put on a front of friendly mildness—making promises that the once naïve England now knew were never meant to be kept. Or, had in the very least, given him a false sense of security. Hastings would be bloodstained for years to come, and England had nothing to show for it but defeat. He is not much more than a child, his too-big armour pinched when it moved about the thin frame it caged and chaffed against his skin. The weight of it dragged him down. The now torn cloak about his shoulders had been practically trailing on the ground and his sword had been gripped awkwardly, incorrectly, in fingers not large enough to properly hold it. He was young. And yet, even so, he had never tasted such vile defeat. He had never been conquered—not properly, not wholly. England’s eyes lifted for the first time in the long minutes since he felt the semblance of conquest so harshly within his chest. His gaze travelled past the dense weather, along the length of the cold grey chapel nestled like a jewel at the centre of the cruciform abbey. He felt him nearby. England tensed, though he stood his ground, waiting for what he knew would come. Waiting. And he was so achingly alone in the eerie field of death. Flesh prickled as his eyes wandered among the deceased. His knuckles whitened against the warm, slippery metal, trying to stop the shiver from migrating past his thin arms. Change. He knew it was coming. He knew it was inevitable. England never wanted to be conquered. He never asked for anyone’s aid to become stronger. That was his responsibility, his own affairs that everyone suddenly seemed so interested in plundering. Everyone wanted something—he came to believe after the bloodthirsty Roman smiled at him for the first time. That gentle smile with fierce legions at his beck and call. Everyone could keep their damned help. Everyone could keep their promises and happily-ever-afters. England had no need for them and he no longer believed in something so inane, so childish and stupid. Yet even as these thoughts raced through his mind, it was a child’s face that he carried and it was child tears running down his cheeks at the remembered slaughter, which he quickly wiped away, wincing as the armor scrapped at the cuts on his face. He shouldn’t be crying, he admonished himself. Crying was for the weak. He was not an infant that couldn’t carry his own. Still, the tremours didn’t tire. The fright refused to be banished from his heart as he felt a similar feeling that he had felt with Rome. Not the same, of course—not entirely. Rome crushed him, suffocated him. England could barely feel the chill in the surrounding air or the wounds over his skin. Adrenaline still course through his body and yet he could feel nothing. He could only watch as France finally revealed himself, slinking from the shadows of the abbey like some godforsaken snake out to swallow his prey. It was the first time that England ever tasted such bile in his mouth. It was the first time that he had ever felt such intense hatred for the man standing there. The Francis from before, seemingly gentle with his words and false pretenses, bore little resemblance to the cold smile that now replaced them. When England noticed that Francis was going to approach him, he couldn’t move. He felt rooted to the ground, heavily soaked by the blood of his countrymen. Heaviness formed in the pit of his stomach, knowing that there was no place that he could take refuge in. His brothers would probably just throw him back into the snake pit—glad to be rid of the little nuisance, no doubt, Arthur fumed in his head, ignoring that this might not have been true, but thinking it anyway. When the Frenchman approached him, England raised his eyes towards him, the green of them shaded with sullenness, with the bitterness of being beaten; his scowl deepened upon hearing France speak. It was nonsense to Arthur’s ears and the bastard knew that. He probably said something horrible—a part of England was a tiny bit glad that his jibe, whatever it may be, had practically fallen on deaf ears. Seeing the French bastard’s gaze travel to his dead, however; that caused his blood to boil. How dare he even look upon the men that he had a hand in slaughtering. Saying something about Arthur himself, that was fine, he could shoulder petty insults like he always had, but saying something nasty about his countrymen was a different thing entirely. That was sick. The moment Francis grabbed Arthur’s cloak and hauled him closer, the boy scrambled to get away from him, an instinctual mixture of panic and fight still running through his body. Arthur attempted to claw at him, anything to get free. A noise tore from his throat, sounding more animal than anything. He vaguely heard France say a few choice statements in Englisc—one of his languages—and felt a surge of anger upon hearing them uttered by his French tongue. Glaring at the blond, he spat, unsure if it had even landed upon his intended target as he twisted and dug his heels into the ground to get away from the vile man. “Let go!” he cried in Englisc, near-hysterical as he tried to twist out of France’s grasp. He felt the moisture of rage leak from his eyes. “Gad lonydd I fi!” he yelled, unthinking, in his brother’s tongue. Would France harm them too? Oh, God, was he going to hurt them, just how he was going to undoubtedly defile him. A different sort of sickness took over England and he felt the sting of guilt for thinking something nasty about them just moments ago. Perhaps if he occupied this bastard’s attention— “I will not submit! Cankerous—filthy—murderous—swine!” He switched to Englisc once again, green eyes connecting with the Frenchman’s—so wide, so bright, and loathing. Additional Information (OOC): Name/Nickname: Rye Time Zone: GMT -7 Contact Info: Ask for Skype! Skype is my usual preference for chatting and I don’t mind giving it out~ PM is fine as well. Introduce yourself: Hello everyone! I go by Rye and have lived all over the place, though am currently placed in a desert, wewt. -_- I'm also a University student in my early 20's working towards my Masters in Counselling. My Bachelor's was in Psychology and English Literature. I've roleplayed on and off throughout the years, though Hetalia has only taken up about a year of that. (: SNK is also a recent interest of mine, having only started watching it last month. Have you read the rules? JAEGER ...we lived in fear of the Titans and were disgraced to exist in these cages we called walls. |
Coding by Elruko, please do not steal.
