Post by val on Sept 15, 2007 17:46:44 GMT -6
Full Name;; Valirion Proust
Username;; Val
What would you like to be?;; Headmaster
Are you sure it's not already taken?;; beats me, Matty said anything i wanted was a go so *shrugs* I daresay I'll just work with that, especially since I have found potions to be presently taken as far as teaching positions go (and I fear that this is the only other things for which I am qualified).
Why do you want to be this?;; It simply seems to fit, and it would be nice to see a Headmaster who interacts with the students on a day to day basis and will personally hear out any complaints or issues that they might have to share. After all, the strongest school is that which is developed on trust.
Do you think you are qualified for this? If so, why?;; Well, yes, I would indeed like to hope so, though some of you may think different if you wish. I have suitable roleplaying skills when I wish to and you could, i suppose, call that a qualification (in and of itself) for just about anything.
Did you used to be a student?;; No
If so, please give a bank account link;; N/A
Sample RP;;
Anyone who'd entered the Headmaster's office was more likely to have thought that this was the private office of the resident potions master, despite knowing full well that said quarters occupied a space in the dungeons. The walls were lined with various jars, each filled with liquids, which varied in color, some going as far as to project a bit of steam around the edges of their corks, a bit escaping into the room from time to time and thus giving it a smoky atmosphere, thought generally not noticeable so. Another shelf looking more at home in a Headmaster's office, contained rows and rows of books on everything from Advanced Poisons and the 'Sign of Portico' to Muggle science fiction and fantasy novels and several volumes by the best poets of both worlds. But this, of course, seemed only natural to those who knew him, and those who understood that books were as much a part of the great escape that defined his life as were the various potions which surrounded him, which it had once been his should duty to focus upon brewing to perfection. Once, he'd been a professor, a great professor some had said, though Valirion himself was far to humble to admit to such. he did not think himself great, merely necessary at the time, always filling some necessary role or another; hearing someone out or provide comfort, lecturing and guiding, providing all that it was within his power to provide...Back then, it hadn't always been enough, there had been certain things that he could never even dream of touching upon, some powers which he would have otherwise denied just as he denied the nature of the wolf, the beat, within him.
Now his words seemed to be magnified by his new found position, though some declared him too young to hold it at the still outwardly tender age of 36. He'd taught only two years previously, worked for the ministry the year before that, and although some of his youthful manner had washed away, the man himself still seemed a youth, all smiles and twinkling eyes, each smile crooked, threatening a flat out grin, and there was always a touch of mischief lurking just beneath the surface, ready to be loosed upon the world. Yet battle had hardened him, the truth had altered him, slowly at first, subtly, and then more outwardly. At one time he'd become haggard and drawn, his skin become pale and sallow, sometimes singed by what he liked to call hellfire back then, sometimes littered with the bruises set upon him by werewolves in disagreement with all that he stood for. he'd been first a truth seeker and then a spy, a liar..and now once more he presided over the realms for truth seeking and justice. Now he sat upon a proverbial throne and, because of it, felt less a man.
he knew the world now too well, better than he'd ever have imagined he would in those first few years of teaching, when he'd been bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, all full of youthful vigor and inexperienced fervor. However, now he sat with a quill in hand that represented the world itself. The blank ink dripped down from the quill poised absently in mid-air, fall and splashed upon the parchment before him like blood upon the ground; Drip, splatter, soak, each always returned to it's own, and yet this was an offset unnatural balance. Men did not come from the earth, but were merely buried in it, life was not a straight forward pattern an group of well known and learned systems, but an endless reign of chaos which humanity struggled day in and day out to make sense of. He was no more a leader than was any other man, and yet lead he must, enforce, teach, understand. This, in a way, the teaching, the enforce, the understanding, it was familiar territory. All men were taught to live life according to certain rules of society, and all of them still were taught to fear the breaking of those rules and thus, in a sense, Valirion Proust was as well fitted as any for this job.
A sudden sensation hits him, and it is that sensation which comes with being too long paused, too long lost in ones thoughts before suddenly coming back to oneself, and so he does return to the present. Blue eyes, bright as the sky itself on a clear and cloudless day peer at the steadily dripping quill and suddenly his hand shoots forward and writes down several lines, each of them all too familiar.
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
He gives the words a quick once over before smiling at them, as though his gaze and smile alone are enough to combat the possibility of their truth. These are the words that signify an idea which he has long since been trying to combat, that there is nothing, no meaning whatsoever to life. This is something that Valirion has never quite been able to believe, lest he despair and perish, and he thinks to himself, 'you're mad Macbeth, you're mad. And all the while words seem to echo back in time. 'Though art afflicted with the madness of life and of caring, Valirion Proust. Thereby, thou art the madman in this place.'
Username;; Val
What would you like to be?;; Headmaster
Are you sure it's not already taken?;; beats me, Matty said anything i wanted was a go so *shrugs* I daresay I'll just work with that, especially since I have found potions to be presently taken as far as teaching positions go (and I fear that this is the only other things for which I am qualified).
Why do you want to be this?;; It simply seems to fit, and it would be nice to see a Headmaster who interacts with the students on a day to day basis and will personally hear out any complaints or issues that they might have to share. After all, the strongest school is that which is developed on trust.
Do you think you are qualified for this? If so, why?;; Well, yes, I would indeed like to hope so, though some of you may think different if you wish. I have suitable roleplaying skills when I wish to and you could, i suppose, call that a qualification (in and of itself) for just about anything.
Did you used to be a student?;; No
If so, please give a bank account link;; N/A
Sample RP;;
Anyone who'd entered the Headmaster's office was more likely to have thought that this was the private office of the resident potions master, despite knowing full well that said quarters occupied a space in the dungeons. The walls were lined with various jars, each filled with liquids, which varied in color, some going as far as to project a bit of steam around the edges of their corks, a bit escaping into the room from time to time and thus giving it a smoky atmosphere, thought generally not noticeable so. Another shelf looking more at home in a Headmaster's office, contained rows and rows of books on everything from Advanced Poisons and the 'Sign of Portico' to Muggle science fiction and fantasy novels and several volumes by the best poets of both worlds. But this, of course, seemed only natural to those who knew him, and those who understood that books were as much a part of the great escape that defined his life as were the various potions which surrounded him, which it had once been his should duty to focus upon brewing to perfection. Once, he'd been a professor, a great professor some had said, though Valirion himself was far to humble to admit to such. he did not think himself great, merely necessary at the time, always filling some necessary role or another; hearing someone out or provide comfort, lecturing and guiding, providing all that it was within his power to provide...Back then, it hadn't always been enough, there had been certain things that he could never even dream of touching upon, some powers which he would have otherwise denied just as he denied the nature of the wolf, the beat, within him.
Now his words seemed to be magnified by his new found position, though some declared him too young to hold it at the still outwardly tender age of 36. He'd taught only two years previously, worked for the ministry the year before that, and although some of his youthful manner had washed away, the man himself still seemed a youth, all smiles and twinkling eyes, each smile crooked, threatening a flat out grin, and there was always a touch of mischief lurking just beneath the surface, ready to be loosed upon the world. Yet battle had hardened him, the truth had altered him, slowly at first, subtly, and then more outwardly. At one time he'd become haggard and drawn, his skin become pale and sallow, sometimes singed by what he liked to call hellfire back then, sometimes littered with the bruises set upon him by werewolves in disagreement with all that he stood for. he'd been first a truth seeker and then a spy, a liar..and now once more he presided over the realms for truth seeking and justice. Now he sat upon a proverbial throne and, because of it, felt less a man.
he knew the world now too well, better than he'd ever have imagined he would in those first few years of teaching, when he'd been bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, all full of youthful vigor and inexperienced fervor. However, now he sat with a quill in hand that represented the world itself. The blank ink dripped down from the quill poised absently in mid-air, fall and splashed upon the parchment before him like blood upon the ground; Drip, splatter, soak, each always returned to it's own, and yet this was an offset unnatural balance. Men did not come from the earth, but were merely buried in it, life was not a straight forward pattern an group of well known and learned systems, but an endless reign of chaos which humanity struggled day in and day out to make sense of. He was no more a leader than was any other man, and yet lead he must, enforce, teach, understand. This, in a way, the teaching, the enforce, the understanding, it was familiar territory. All men were taught to live life according to certain rules of society, and all of them still were taught to fear the breaking of those rules and thus, in a sense, Valirion Proust was as well fitted as any for this job.
A sudden sensation hits him, and it is that sensation which comes with being too long paused, too long lost in ones thoughts before suddenly coming back to oneself, and so he does return to the present. Blue eyes, bright as the sky itself on a clear and cloudless day peer at the steadily dripping quill and suddenly his hand shoots forward and writes down several lines, each of them all too familiar.
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
He gives the words a quick once over before smiling at them, as though his gaze and smile alone are enough to combat the possibility of their truth. These are the words that signify an idea which he has long since been trying to combat, that there is nothing, no meaning whatsoever to life. This is something that Valirion has never quite been able to believe, lest he despair and perish, and he thinks to himself, 'you're mad Macbeth, you're mad. And all the while words seem to echo back in time. 'Though art afflicted with the madness of life and of caring, Valirion Proust. Thereby, thou art the madman in this place.'
Anyway, it's yours.
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