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Messages - Nigel Huntingdon
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« on: 08/08/2012 at 10:11 »
I'm not actually sure if I'm allowed to respond to questions /shifty but the answer to the first one would be three: one main account and two subaccounts! Hope that helped 
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« on: 04/08/2012 at 12:57 »
 Application for Salem Professor
→ CHARACTER INFORMATION.
Name: Nigel Edward Huntingdon
Age: 25
Birthplace: Welford, Berkshire, England
Educational History: Beauxbatons, 1959-1961, Salem, 1961-1965 (Pawn Society)
Magical Levels: C16D14T19S12
Biography:
In war: resolution.
At night he would lie in bed and listen to the crying.
Nigel didn’t know what to make of crying. He didn’t cry, because he was a man, and men certainly didn’t cry; but listening to the boys crying was so pathetic that he almost empathized with them. There would be Jackson, sniveling in a corner; kid McIntyre, bawling his eyes out at certain points in the night. Harris prone to coughing, once or twice, choking on his tears, tossing and turning without ever sleeping properly. Fox lying on his bunk without making a noise, but Nigel had looked once and seen his cheeks glistening with tears.
He often wondered what they were crying about. It couldn’t possibly be the war, because who in their right mind would cry about war? War was beautiful; the savage joy of destruction, the wondrous idea that men could kill other men and still feel right about it, the honor that accompanied serving your country and the glory won with battle.
It could be about family, but then Nigel wouldn’t understand that, because he had none.
Vietnam was a torrid, dark place, but Nigel loved it; it was a new sort of war, a war unlike any other war a Huntingdon had ever fought in, and he was proud to be a pioneer in the field.
(Yes, he was still a Huntingdon, no matter what they said.)
In the morning they would wake up and Nigel would lead them forth into the jungle, into the valley of death, and amidst the blood and the dying, the gore and the destruction, no one would cry.
In defeat: defiance.
Nigel had only ever seen his father twice. The first time was now a vague memory, a silver-haired man stopping by to talk to Ma, glancing at him before leaving and not looking back. The second time, he had been eight years old, and Llewellyn had given him a hug.
It had been an awkward sort of hug, the sort you give to people you don’t really know. Nigel supposed that he didn’t really know his father, in the first place. A side hug, Llewellyn flinging his arm around his son for the briefest of seconds before letting go. He had said, and Nigel remembered the words very clearly:
You’ll never be a Huntingdon, but you’ll always be my son.
But being Llewellyn’s son was not enough. Never enough. Jaw set with the determination of an eight year old child, Nigel had watched Llewellyn disappear once and for all. He hadn’t looked back, but Nigel had come to expect that from his father.
Ma waited until he was gone before she gave Nigel the poppy. A badge, glazed over with protective sheen and blood red. The name ‘Huntingdon’ imprinted in neat capital letters across the front. Ma said it was the symbol of war and valor and honor, and it was all Llewellyn would allow Nigel to have of the name.
That night he had lain in bed and sworn that he would be a Huntingdon, and he would make them proud. He would have a family, even if his family didn’t want him. He twirled the poppy around his fingers. There was no such thing as defeat.
In victory: magnanimity.
Nigel hated the French.
Frogs, they were called, with good reason, too; slimy, smarmy, wet and disgusting. Frogs always tried to cheat you out of your money, reneged on promises, destroyed you. He’d moved to France because of Ma, dirty and grimy and flinging herself out to rich British men. That was how he’d been born, hadn’t he? Unclean. Impure. French.
Six damn years of his life wasted because of France. He’d been what, seven when they’d moved to that cramped little apartment overlooking Paris? Nigel had refused to learn a single word of French, but inevitably they’d seeped into his mind like poison filtering through a drink. Sometimes when they spoke Ma would purposely slip into French and he’d reply in kind, and he knew that the look of savage happiness on Ma’s face was not imagined.
She was indoctrinating him.
Brainwashing. Whatever. It was still illegal to do that to your own kid, damn it. And so he began to plot to get out of France forever. Skipping classes at school, setting things on fire, trying to get himself arrested by the Muggle police. Anything and everything that would bring him over somewhere else.
He could still remember that cool Autumn day when the teachers were practically begging Ma to bring him to America. He’d left a trail of destruction behind him and Ma didn’t have a choice, really. They packed their bags and left on the ferry that would take them past England (his real birth town, his real one) and on to the new land.
On the ferry, Nigel swore that he’d be nice to Ma from now on, even though he still hated her for being French. Because this was what Churchill had said, and the salty sea air smelt like victory.
In peace: goodwill.
War was when he was most as peace.
It was a purely Huntingdon trait, this messing of wizards and muggles, dirtying yourself in a war that didn’t concern you. Huntingdons were meant to be bold and courageous. Honor and duty and all that nonsense. And Nigel wasn’t just a Huntingdon by name, he was also a Huntingdon by nature; something that Llewellyn would never ever see, no matter how hard he tried to prove it.
They had come to Vietnam to liberate it. Good will, altruistic motives. Fox didn’t believe in any of that. Far too cynical for his own good. Jackson was more idealistic, and he believed in glory and the beauty of war; a pity that he’d died in Loc Ninh just over a week ago. Blown to little bits and his blood on Nigel’s hands, because Nigel was the squad leader who had led them into hell.
But Nigel was used to blood on his hands; it was exhilarating, it was gorgeous, it was life. He wished that the war would never end, because without war it was going to be impossible for him to survive. Without war it was going to be impossible to prove himself to Llewellyn.
Harris said, “Ni, they’re asking for you.”
Nigel traipsed over to the radio. Harris wasn’t actually the operator, but since the operator had been gutted and strung up on a cross last Monday, they didn’t really have a choice. “Huntingdon.”
The next few words were the only words he had ever heard that chilled him straight to the bone.
“Huntingdon, start to pack up. You and your squad are going home.”
Because real peace he had at last.
Strengths & Weaknesses:
His illegitimate status has ingrained in Nigel a raw determination to prove himself, and once he’s set his mind on a goal he will stop at nothing to accomplish it – he’s not above stepping on a few toes to get there, either. However, he also has a very narrow focus, and will shove aside all other responsibilities in order to achieve the goal he wants, which makes him something of a slacker. He’s also quite lazy when he’s not driven; for example, now that he’s achieved his prestigious Professor position, he’ll procrastinate on actually teaching the class. When he’s bored (and that is often) he tends to drift off, but somehow has the ability to bounce back on time in order not to miss an important word. He’s intelligent, but doesn’t use that intelligence often, and couldn’t care less about life now that there’s no more war for him to fight. Nigel is not lacking in confidence, and he’s brave and pretty tough, but he tends to rush into things without thinking and is pretty tactless sometimes. His ‘I am God’s Gift to Women’ mentality makes him a bit of a jerk, though he deludes himself into thinking that he’s a nice guy. Which he is. Sometimes. He’s extremely resourceful and can probably procure anything as he did in the jungles, earning him the nickname of the Scrounger.
Hopes & Dreams:
Nigel wants to be a proper Huntingdon, accepted in the family, and he will do whatever it takes to get there. Being a Salem Professor and having a comfortable job with a relatively high status is step one, and he’s yet to figure out how to continue. What he wants (deep in his heart) is to settle down somewhere and somehow, but right now he’s too busy having fun with girls to care very much. He also wants another war so that he can be comfortable again, although his love for war is really a psychological thing associated with being a Huntingdon rather than an actual psychopathic need.
→ SAMPLE ROLEPLAY.
Please reply to the sample roleplay below!
Nigel should have applied for this job ages ago.
Teaching was a decent and respectable profession, and while he certainly could have made it to the ranks of Auror and suchlike, something told him that the Huntingdons would appreciate this sort of job even more. He picked at the lapels of his class A uniform as he navigated the familiar corridors. Fresh from the fields of Vietnam. What wizards would make of his get up; they’d probably ask him silly questions about balls and things like that.
He took the stairs two at a time and knocked on the door, letting himself in without waiting for a response. Winchester should have known he was coming; that was what making an appointment was for. The seat before the desk was vacant and Nigel took it, throwing his resume in front of the President almost carelessly. If he didn’t get the job, there was always Auror training to look at.
Winchester shuffled a few papers, presumably to look important. Any other busybody would have glanced at the papers in an attempt to find out what they were, but Nigel couldn’t care less. Nothing seemed important now that he’d been thorugh the killing fields of Ia Drang and Hue. Just…girls. Briefly he wondered if Salem had any hot professors. He could probably do with some of those.
“Why would you like to teach at Salem? And please, don’t tell me it’s for the history. I get that all the time.”
Well, him arriving in a Muggle army uniform didn’t exactly put him in the best light for that question. Nigel folded his arms and looked at Winchester, his grey eyes dull and uninterested. “Because I want to teach. Why else would I be here?”
Not a very good start to an interview.
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