Godfrey Godwinson

[Godfrey Godwinson]

The Basics

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Name: Godfrey Goodwin Godwinson
Nicknames: Family: Goody, Frey, Monk,
Friends: Arsehole, bastard, git, Goddy.
Everyone else: Mr.Limey, Blueblood.
Age: Forty-Seven
Orientation:Heterosexual
Desired Rank/Job: Maths Teacher
Powers: Telekinesis
Play By: Hugh Laurie

The Details

Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Blue
Any Piercings? None
Any Tattoos? A simple, black word on his right shoulder: Ubique
Any Scars? Nothing notable; he has a series of cuts behind his right ear, and a pretty nasty gash on his left hand.
General Appearance: Despite his frame, Godfrey stands as if he was nineteen foot tall and three tonnes of muscle. His head is held high, and his eyes looking down at everyone and anyone. This is partly due to his arrogance, mostly due to his towering size of six foot three inches. Honestly, the guy may be thin, but the bulk didn't disappear: it just went to up! Due to this, his stride is long and swift. He does, indeed, carry a cane, but this is not for any limp; he's English, for god's sake. Mostly, every step is made fluently and quickly, without fuss or dash, though he often wears a condescending expression of contempt. Indeed, contempt is the best way to describe any vibe you get from Godfrey. He holds himself tall, not because he thinks he is better than people, but because he knows it. Each roll of the eyes is coupled with a snort. Even the way he stands; constantly looking for something more interesting, tapping his foot, twirling his cane. It just exhudes dislike and arrogance.

Hair-wise, he sort of wears a mask of centimetre long black hair around his scalp and chin, a hark-back both to his complete lack of caring what anyone thinks of him (the beard) and his military days (the buzzcut). He keeps these meticulous in their length; every fortnight, he cuts his hair, and every three days he shaves. As a consequence, Godfrey always seems to look pretty much the same. His face is always well-rested and never haggard, and his brown eyes are seemingly notorious for always being on the lookout for anything. Thin and almost aquiline, his cheeks dip in on either side of his face, and his high-forehead sits bare for all to see.
In terms of dress sense, well, take a peek at the picture. Stylish greys mixed with remote blacks, Godfrey is rarely seen outside of a suit, and he's proud of that. Occasionally, he will drag his Military Dress Uniform out, but this just won't happen at a school. His shoes are formal and high-quality, and he never fails to make his presence known by tapping his toes against the floor.

Personality: He's an arsehole, quite simply. Godfrey is enormously arrogant, pompous and condescending wherever he goes and whoever he talks to. He is racist towards the French and people of Middle-Eastern descent, and often makes very, very politically-incorrect jokes about any racial group he can think of at the times. Every word that exhudes from his mouth is edged with his British Accent, a strong Brummy tone, and a certain hatred for everyone he doesn't know. You may ask, then, why the hell he's a teacher? Well, thinking everyone is stupid means you're actually quite tolerant of people who struggle with things like Maths and Arithmetic. Also, Godfrey holds himself to an iron standard: he takes no drugs of anykind, be they painkillers or alcohol, and adheres to a strict dietary and exercise routine. It really is a case of him having a reason to hate everyone: because they don't hold themselves to the same standard he does.

In teaching, he often comes across as directly insulting. Yes, he often reins back on the younger students, but anyone over the age of 12 is fair game for him to jibe, poke and tease, in a very sophisticated and haughty manner. But, overtime, he finds he prefers the students who talk back and try to have a go. But there is a line. Cross the line, and Mr.Godwinson will break you. He will eject you from his class and never bear your presence again. This line tend to be directly insulting him, or swearing at him. Either way, Godfrey tends to have a goo idea of who can take it, and who can't, and will tone his jibing, insulting nature down a peg when he's helping a student who is genuinely stuck. Of course, the ones who are just being lazy get the full force of his dislike.

With women, Godfrey tries and fails to straddle the line between gentleman and superior, often swaying into the realm of superior. It should come as no surprise that he is divorced, and bitterly so; for he treats women as if they should be doing something, constantly. He never says the right thing to them, instead substituting careful compliments with snarky barbs, and rarely allowing his better sense to stop him from poking someone.

But Godfrey does have friends. These are people who bite back, but in measured amounts, so that the conversation becomes a test of wits, not a shouting match. Even if they lose, they'll find him giving them a nod in the hallway and chatting with them in the staff room with a slightly-toned down version of his resentful arrogance.

Your Vices

Likes:
-England
-PG Tips tea.
-Dried beef jerky.
-Numbers
-Sarcasm
-Insulting people
-Large guns.
-Any kind of ordnance; catapults, slingshots, anything.
-Being better than everyone else.
-Order in a world of chaos
-Resilience and determination
-Dogs
Dislikes:
-People who give in or give up easily
-Cats
-Disrespect
-The Arts
-Dancing
-The Film Industry
-Predictable results
-Whales
-Environmentalists
-Old people who moan about 'the good old days'.
-Violence
-Teenagers
Strengths:
Godfrey is, obviously, a high-skilled mathematician, being skilled in calculus, trygonometry and complicated algebra, though his main skill is in applied physics. Next, he is highly-fit and very disciplined, so he finds marking and paperwork easy to get through, and he is rarely ill. Thirdly, he is utterly self-assured, so he can keep his emotions in checK; he picks his battles. Finally, his years as an Officer have given him a strict basis for handling violent people: he can fight, quite simply.
Weaknesses: Unfortunately, he actively chooses to be prickly and snide, so he usually does not get on well with people, and therefore picks alot of battles. In short, he does not work well with others. Next, he isn't exactly nice, and so finds himself being generally hated. Yes, one of his biggest weaknesses is that he doesn't care! This means he makes no attempt to reconcile, and therefore remains so. Generally, most of his weaknesses stem from him being a bastard: he doesn't understand music, despises acting and thinks Writers are overpaid hacks (L'Irony!). But, he also struggles to deal with most emotional crisis, and so finds himself aloof and stranded whenever he comes across something he can't handle.
Fears:
-He is utterly terrified of heights, and always has been.
-Godfrey is also enormously claustrophobic, and fights the urge to always be out in the open air.
Secret:
Every soldier he ever lost receives an anonymous bouquet of flowers and a purse of money to their families every anniversary of their death.

Family Ties

Father: Sir James Godwinson (89)
Mother: Anita Jameson (83)
Siblings: None.
Any Other Important People:A large English Mastiff called Titan, currently 8 years old, a 13 year old West-Highland Terrier called, imaginatively, Terror, and a Cairn Terrier, 1o years old, called Bruce.
Oh yeah, and three sons, Jacob (12), Godfrey(15), and Matthew (21) who he never sees anymore.

History

Born the only child of a very reputable family, Godfrey was always destined to fight in the Army. His father had briefly been an Aide to the Chief of the General Staff, the head of the professional British Army, and had fought in both WW2 and Korea. Godfrey had alot to live up to, but he got alot of help. He was educated at a high-quality prep-school literally an hour's drive away. His father, having retired only a few years after Godfrey was born (Sir James was notoriously infertile, taking nearly thirty years to conceive with his Wife.) took special care with him. Unlike most arseholes, Godfrey always had a good relationship with both his mother and his father, even coming to see them as without flaw. However, he exhibited many traits that were more pronounced in his Uncles; arrogance, snootiness and a fierce temper. This became blindingly obvious when, on his 11th Birthday, Godfrey slammed the gigantic birthday cake down atop a particular girl's head, who he fancied at the time. To get her attention.

Not long after, Godfrey was told that he was not, infact, going to Eaton. Instead, he would be going all the way to Switzerland, to learn how to control his powers.
School was not easy for him. His arrogance and snootiness earnt him few friends, and his eagerness to learn, aswell as his fear of violence, incurred bullying of a stunning scale. In response, Godfrey refined his powers to an incredible degree, soon becoming the most powerful Telekinetic in his year. Meanwhile, his skills in History, the Sciences (excluding Biology), Maths and Geography excelled, though he never got a brilliant grasp of the variety of languages in Switzerland (mainly due to most of the Meta-Humans from mainland Europe going to Switzerland, and most of the British ones going to America). His visits home were, at first, tinged with bitterness for being sent to that horrible place, but, over the years, Godfrey grew, matured and accepted his parent's judgement as the correct one. He left the Switz School with four A-Levels, but no University degree.

Abruptly, he was almost instantly given a commission in the Royal Artillery Corps, owing mainly to his father's influence. Most Officers required a University Degree, but it seemed an influential sire and an A-Level in Advanced Maths, Maths and Physics were an appropriate substitute (Though Godfrey often stated it was too easy.)
Only a few months out of Officer Training at Sandhurst, and Second Lieutenant Godwinson of the Royal Artillery found himself going to War. The Falkands Conflict was a short, sharp shock for both the Argentinian Government and Godfrey. Though he was promoted to First Lieutenant for his admirable conduct and deadly fire, he found his time with the enlisted men haunting; they disliked him a great deal, and only after the Battle of Goose Green did they develop any kind of respect for him. But, acting on advice from his father, Godfrey did not become weak, or brow-beaten. Instead, he began to insult his guncrew with utterly horrific and disgusting language, and offered little to no praise; a far cry from the blubbering, nervous young Lieutenant.
In this way, he found his place amongst the Royal Artillery. On coming home, Godfrey got the tatoo of the Royal Artillery and the Royal Engineers on his shoulder 'Ubique' - Everywhere. Because, to this day, they pretty much are.
In total, Godfrey served 22 years in the British Army, fighting in Bosnia, Northern Ireland, a brief stint of inactive duty in the Falklands, and a short shooting gallery in the Gulf War. He rose to the rank of Colonel, and became known as 'God' by his men, and 'The Divine Arse' by the quieter among them. He took a brief hiatus to study Advanced Maths at Cambridge, but immediately returned to his regiment. However, during this time, he married a woman called Jane Matthews, and abruptly divorced her not long after being promoted to Colonel. Their marriage was unhappy the moment Godfrey became obsessed with his work, and they separated ten years before actually divorcing.

It was this short, sharp shock; finally getting a divorce, that encouraged the Colonel to ask his commanding Officer for an honourable discharge. He was given it, and, at his mother's suggestion, took his hand to teaching. A one-year course set him well on his way; after six years at it, Godfrey does not regret his decision: his life is quieter, simpler. His first teaching job was, infact at The Hammel Institute, and he has been teaching Maths here ever since.

Roleplay Example

Was there a God? For the first time since he had been beaten into believing in the Almighty's Will, the Captain questioned that sombrely held assumption. That God existed. If God existed, then how could this little bundle of pure innocence be allowed to die? In all his time as a Slayer and Warrior, the Knight had seen much woe, and caused it. Women had been massacred, children's throats slit on his orders. But all had been for a cause, some kind of greater good. When Sir Diarmid had died, Sir Matthew had learnt caution. When his father died, the man learnt to deal with inner pain (Alcohol). All had been important. Without these brokers of fortune, the Captain would not be Captain and, in his belief, King Aldrin would be dead, hampering God's plan. Up until that morning, Sir Matthew had been content that God existed, and that he had a plan. Maybe this plan was not as the Church decribed, but it was there. Everything about it would eventually come to light, and the world would be better for God's ministrations.

But this made no sense. How could the death of an adoring young baby-boy of the Royal Line at all be to the benefit of the World? Sir Matthew had insisted that he tell the King himself. It was his duty, one that he had failed at. The Crown Prince was an extension of the King, and therefore under the Captain's charge, the way he viewed it. As such, the Prince should not have died. The knowledge hung heavily upon the Knight's head, but he had no time to mourn. No time to grieve for his own sense of falure, for the Knight was a smart man. Had an assassin snuck into the Chambers and gutted the babe in his cot, he would request that he be hung for his failure. Had he grown strong and died in battle, Sir Matthew would die beside him, not giving ground until he was dead. Yet, that was not the case. Atleast, it did not seem so. The Guards were men. They did not see everything. Shadows and devils hung across the walls like cobwebs, they said, but if any evidence came to light that they had failed in their duty, their heads would be displayed as a warning. Even that thought failed to bring some kind of fight or hope to the Warrior's psyche. His Crown Prince was dead. How could the Church explain this?

Cautiously, the Captain had taken a few seconds to compose himself as the News seeped into his soul. Then he had told the King, and it had hurt him to say it. Many would have tried to shield themselves in stoicism, or emotion. Sir Matthew was amongst the former. His words had been steady and level as he informed his KIng that the Crown Prince was not breathing. Cold. Callous. But only a lifetime of composure held back the man's grief. His eyes were not potent; they were haggard, as he followed at his King's heels, the man's face dropping. With his King's attention elsewhere, he could let the shock express itself upon his features in a single form; tiredness. So tired. Almost as if the Captain, so stoic and implacable to the end, had ridden for a dozen nights without sleep. As if he had conquered a Kingdom with nothing but his swordarm and a good shield. Much like the time he had butchered the Teeth. His grey tunic hung loosely over his shoulders as his posture contrasted with his King's; as they strode through the halls, the Knight seemed to take every footfall as a thousand blows to his armour, a day's march in heavy rain. How could this happen? How was this justified?

Sir Michael, strong and tall with his sun-blonde hair falling around his shoulders, and Sir Dara, his hair long ago having fled his head but following along with an equal stride to longer-legged battle-brothers, quietly took up positions either side of Sir Matthew several paces behind the King. "He is dead, then?" They whispered, eyes wide in shock. Their response was a solemn shrug and a heavy nod. Such was life, it seemed. The King's Guard had failed. How? Because they could not protect against the one thing that befell all God's children. His Will. That was Dara's explanation, either way. Marshal's was weaker, but had the embers of a great blaze. How could this happen? How could something so pivotal to the benefit of the nation fall like a chess piece upon the board?

He saw his King standing over that cradle. One by one, the fifteen members of the King's Guard gathered, some outside, the more senior members beside the Captain, all giving distance to the man they had failed. Some held their heads low, others held them in their hands, others simply looked on at the King and the Cradle, dumb-struck by what had happened. How could God explain His actions this night? The fire was stoked as that thought ran through Sir Matthew's brain like a constant volley of arrows and rocks. He blamed God, so he would not blame himself, he knew, but that changed nothing. Absolutely nothing.
It was only a matter of time until the King finally was forced to tears by the tragedy, but the King's Guard stood vigil the entire time, solemn and hurt by the truth of what had occured. Sir Matthew himself underwent a transformation in the time. From a broken, beaten man who had been levelled by God's hand, he focused upon the King and the corpse of Iain, and found the cold anger he'd been looking for. The fury he'd found at Querrel Bay: when he'd been struck to the surf by a boat, when he had been content to drown in the mud, dejected and tired. Only the thought of his mother outliving him brought him back.
And the thought of something less than natural at the hand of this cot-death did the trick this time.

Silently, the Captain's face tensed up from a loose expression of haggardness to a fierce one of purpose and determination as he turned to Sir Dara and whispered "Send a man to Sir Atreides. Tell him I need to speak to him, post haste." His arm grasped Sir Michael's shoulder. "Find the Guardsmen and interrogate them. I want to know everything by four candlemarks."
The two men, who had been dumbstruck and grief-stricken, now felt that fury, and it lit sparks in their own hearts. The idea that some coalition had deigned fit to murder their Prince? No, no evidence presented itself. But even the thought of it gave them rage, and they would make damned sure that this tragedy was of God's hand, not man's.
As his orders were given, the Captain finished "When the King has left. Until then, stand guard, as we should have for Crown-Prince Iain Seraphin, Son of King Aldrin Seraphin."
Turning back to face the cradle, the men stood. Silent. Saddened. But with purpose..

What About You?

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[Admin!]

ACCEPTED!
Congratulations, you have been accepted to the Hammel Institute. There are some CLAIMS you should look at, and then you have fun. If you need anything, let Mads or myself know. Nice to have you aboard.

Sorry for disappearing last night. My internet is patchy here, and I eventually gave up and went to bed.