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A somewhat well-known musician who makes a humble living playing in the Vortex Jazz Club. In another life, he was the heir to one of the greatest business dynasties Europe had ever known. In another, he was a hitman for the Underground. Both of those men are dead and gone now, and all that remains are echoes and smokey memories.

To describe Niklaas in a word, it would be blunt. If he has something to say about you, he will say it, no ifs and or buts, and if you don't like it than that's your problem, not his. He usually default back to monotone sarcasm when speaking, and he cranks it up to eleven whenever he's with someone he isn't particularly fond of. It doesn't matter if you're of someone of great importance or not, no one is immune to criticism or insults. That in mind, he does know when the back off , he doesn't want to piss someone off to the point they'd want to murder him, you can't make money if you're dead. Niklaas is also the type of man who speaks dryly and, more often than not, with a hint of sarcasm. In fact, dry sarcasm seems to come as naturally to him as Dutch does.

Niklaas is a little anal about what he spends, rarely giving into the desire to buy something just for the sake of buying it. When he does buy something on impulse, he tries to at least come up with a reason why he would need it in the first place, making sure he won't just shove it in a corner or on a desk somewhere and let it collect dust. Honestly, people who do that bother him. On the topic of being anal about spending, he also has a bad habit of “pricing” anyone's house or flat that he's invited to. The second he walks in through your door, he's mentally going over how much you spent for everything in his mind, and if his estimate gets too high or he sees something completely ridiculous that you own, he'll bring it up with a peculiar tone of annoyance. It can be argued that he's just jealous that some people can afford nicer things and still survive, but when questioned about it he will answer in his usual fashion; “The fact that you spend a stupid amount of money on junk doesn't have anything to do with me being jealous. It has to do with me thinking that you're careless with money.” Keeping with the preference of frugality and simplicity, Niklaas does not own a car (but really, who would in London), using a bike and public busses to get around the city, it's way cheaper.

With his sarcasm and sharp tongue, it should come as a surprise to no one that Niklaas is one of those people who wear their emotions on their sleeves. His emotions are very easy to read, and he doesn't even try to hide it, just like everything else about him his emotions are very clear cut. When he's angry, he's angry. When he's annoyed, when he's annoyed; there is no beating around the bush or pretending to feel any differently. He has a “respect earned, respect given” view on life, so if you just wave your title or position in his face, he'll wave it off like it doesn't even matter, which it doesn't, not to him anyway. Anyone can say they're some corporate big shot or have their fingers in some underworld network's pie, and anyone can lie about having fame fortune and power. To him, it's either put up or shut and leave him alone.

On the other end of this sharped-tongue man is a softness that only those who bother to peel back the layers are privileged to see. The hardest shell conceals the softest center (or some other cliché BS like that), after all, and Niklaas is no exception. He is surprisingly loyal to those he deems worthy of his time, and almost big brotherly to the ones who are younger than he is. He also has a side that some would consider “romantic”, since he does occasionally indulge in romance novels every now and again (but they have to be good; none of that Fifty Shades of Purple Prose crap), the fact that he plays saxophone, and the little pet bunny that he keeps in his flat. Again, this is a side to him that he keeps buried under a thick layer of, well, being a general ass to everyone around him. He does lighten up his usual sarcasm when around women, especially if they're physically attractive to him. He's by no means a lady's man, he just know that there are ways you act around men and ways you act around women, unless the woman is a compete and utter bitch. In which case she is just as liable for Niklaas' usual demeanor as any man.


Going back to the fact that Niklaas wears his emotions on his sleeve, he does have a little problem with keeping his anger in control. His fuse, while long, burns very quickly, and it doesn't take much to tip him over the line separating “I'm pissed at you” and “I will punch you in the throat!” He's not a violent person, and not one to throw the first punch, so much as he is a very argumentative man when angry. It's a natural fall back to argue the person into submission, even if it doesn't work out quite the way he would like it to sometimes.

Rabbits
What? Rabbits are manly as hell! Whatever the case, Niklaas has a fondness for the small, furry little animals, and even keeps one named Nijntje as a pet. He thinks that rabbits are much better (and cuter) than dogs and cats. Cats are just prissy, and dogs are way too high maintenance.

-Scarves
Ninety percent of the time he doesn't wear scarves to keep warm; he just likes how they look. Plus they hide his neck from the rest of the world. In a way having his neck covered makes him feel more secure.

-Smoking
Screw what the anti-smoking crowd says, nicotine is the ultimate stress-reliever. The way it tastes, the way it feels, everything about it is incredibly calming. Of course on his budget Niklaas can only afford cheap cigarettes, but it's better than nothing.

-His pipe
He has one supreme favorite pipe; the one that he always carries around with him. One of the few things he has left to remind him of his mother- of warm smiles, easier days, and the faint scent of clove tobacco.

-Good tobacco
Niklaas spends a lot of his money on the best tobacco that he can afford. None of that crappy cheap stuff. Since Medius is, unfortunately, a very wet country he has to buy his tobacco from Penuria or Pariter, and that can get bothersome. To avoid suspicion (and to make sure no one else touches it), he will either go to buy tobacco directly, or set up a meeting place to pick it up.

-Younger people
Call him a pedophile and he will end you. Niklaas sees nothing wrong in admiring those who are younger than he is. More to the point, younger girls are cute. End of story.

-Tulips
Tulips are manly too, shut your face. They're simple flowers that come in a variety of colors, and for that reason Niklaas likes them. He just thinks they're pretty, really.

-Romantic Novels
Good romantic novels. None of that "hot and steamy erotica" stuff; most of it is complete crap. And don't give him started on that "50 Shades" shit. That's just a waste of paper.

-Gardening
If he had his way, he would have an entire yard as his own garden. Unfortunately he lives in a flat, and unfortunately flats don't have the facilities for the garden he wants. Doesn't stop him from having planter boxes though.

-Being denied nicotine
He's addicted to nicotine, and hell hath no fury like Niklaas when he's been denied. He will keep his anger to a smolder for a decent amount of time, but beyond that he's a loose canon.

-Tomatoes
He hates the taste, he hates the texture, and he hates how obnoxiously red they are, yet everyone and their mothers seem to think that tomatoes should go in everything. Soups, sauces, sandwiches, salads; the list just goes on. He'll just pick the vile things out and hope tomato juice didn't contaminate anything.

-When people mess with his pipe(s)
This not only applies to his trademark pipe, but the pipe collection that he has in his room. His pipes are like his babies, and only a select few are allowed to touch them. He'll show them off, sure, and maybe he'll let you hold one, but don't count on it.

-Annoying people
Self-explanatory, really

Dreams go here. There are a minimum of three things your character must want to do. Can be in paragraph or list format.

-Losing everything
He's built himself up way too much to let everything fall to pieces. He's clawed his way up the social ladder and made something of himself; he's going to keep that together as long as he can.

-Lung disease
It's inevitable in his case. With how addicted Nikaas has become to nicotine, he really has no choice but to wait around until his lungs finally give out. The problem is, Niklaas doesn't want that. You'd think he accepted it by now but no, he really hasn't.

In the beginning, Niklaas was a boy of prestige and privilege. The heir to a business empire that had survived for generations, and a possible descendant of the pre-revolution French monarchy. He was born a van Rosenfeld- one of the most well-known and respected families in the Low Countries, and as such he lived the life of a prince. Fortunately Niklaas was taught from a young age that arrogance only bred negligence, and if he ever overstepped his privilege, his parents let him know.

Now, Niklaas suffered from chronic nightmares as child- silly things like a monster in his closet gobbling him up- but it was enough to keep him up far, far past his bedtime. In an attempt to remedy this, he was given a stuffed Nijntje doll, since she was his very favorite story character. He would grow out of the nightmares as he got older, but he never could completely part with Nijntje. Most big brothers give their stuffed animals to their little siblings, proudly proclaiming that they were too old for “baby toys”, but he kept Nijntje. She graduated to the shelf above his bed, because seven year old boys didn't sleep with stuffed animals. Except for special occasions.

He was so innocent when he was a child, looking at the world with wide, curious eyes as he day-dreamed about what existed out there. He had an obsession with orange juice and hagelslag, and watched in anticipation as mommy's stomach grew bigger and bigger. There was a little brother or sister in there! He didn't quite get it, but he could feel them moving inside mommy's tummy sometimes! When Charlotte finally came home from the doctor's, Niklaas couldn't stop staring at her. She was loud and fussy and smelly, but she was his baby sister, and we was going to be the best big brother in the whole entire world. One year later, mommy had another baby when they were on holiday in Luxembourg. It was “early”, mommy said. Niklaas didn't know what that meant (getting a new sibling faster was a good thing, right?), but mommy was worried- which made him scared. What scared him even more was how long it was taking- longer than it had taken with Charlotte.

When she was born, Mommy said Marianne was an angel. Everyone seemed to love her the second she came out of Mommy’s tummy. It made him jealous, as all three year olds got whenever attention was diverted elsewhere, but Mommy assured him that she still loved him very much. “All I ask is that you be her guardian angel like you are with Charlotte. Can you do that for me?” Oh course he agreed, puffing out his little chest and proclaiming that he'd protect his siblings forever and ever.

Mother spent time with Charlotte, teaching her social etiquette and the proper ways to interact with a crowd. The tutors, Mother, and Father all huddled around Marianne, poking and prodding the prodigal sibling with questions about her life goals. It seemed like the only time Niklaas saw Father, it was when he was being taught about business. Stocks, economics, business negotiations, drops, raises, monopolies; everything that could be crammed into the mind of a thirteen year old boy. That said, Father was a man of sport as much as he was a man of business, and introduced Niklaas to skeet shooting when he started to show an interest. It was fun and challenging, but seeing all the awards that hung in Father's office made Niklaas strive to earn just as many. Stubbornness and pride compelled him to do better than Father -just once he wanted to be better. He took part in competitions that took his family across Europe, and brought home gleaming first place awards and a deep satisfaction on what he accomplished. At sixteen he was better than men twice his age. Perhaps even better than Father had been.

And yet... Marianne seemed to be the shining star of the van Rosenfeld family. He could win tournaments and awards, get outstanding marks in school and be at the top of his classes, but he wasn't the prodigy attending one of the most prestigious universities in Europe. He was smart, but not the smartest. He was talented, but there were others better. Others like Marianne. Who the hell was she to get all this attention and love from their parents? He -they- hardly even knew her! Fortunately his mother was there to smother the embers of hatred that threatened to ignite. “It's expected of her. Of all of you,” she said soothingly. “All of Europe expects you to become the leaders in your field. I wish it wasn't so, but such is the price of fame.”

During his twentieth year of life, everything he ever knew came crashing down around him. One moment, he was playing a duet with his mother (her playing piano, him playing saxophone), and sharing glass of cinnamon whiskey with his father as they discussed Niklaas furthering his education somewhere abroad. The next, a call from the local hospital informed him that his parents, both of them, had died in a horrible accident. Extended family members and business partners came to the estate, offering empty condolences and hopes that Niklaas would continue to make sure everything ran smoothly. Responsibility that he wasn't ready for, that was thrown onto him too soon and too fast. Despite the fact that it felt like thousand pound weights had been chained to his ankles, he tried to step into his father's shoes. It was all he could do, at the time.

A private funeral was arranged, and even the dear Princess Marianne decided to grace her siblings with her presence and mourn with them. He swallowed the lingering dislike for her (he was a grown man now, for fuck's sake, time to bury the hatchet), and threw himself into his work. However it seemed no matter how well he ran the business, no matter how much he did everything right, everything fell apart, slipped through his fingers like he had tried to cup water in his hands. Any attempt to contact family and partners for help was turned down in the most passive-agressive, ways possible. Emails full of "we're very sorries" or "there's nothing we can dos". Not even the extended family who cried crocodile tears when Mother and Father passed lifting a single finger to help their cousin/nephew. Even Marianne's help felt bitter and lifeless. After all, the only reason she stayed to try and help Niklaas was forher sake, an attempt her precious reputation safe. She practically jumped on that plane back to Germany once the dust settled, flying far away from the “siblings” who were teetering on the edge of nothing. Away from the plebeians who threatened to drag her through the mud along with them.

Well, then. She could just go straight to hell with all the other fuckers who leeched off the family's money.

Half of his trust went into the bank, while the other half was put into a personal account to keep himself and Charlotte afloat. Father had always said to bide your time, and pluck the fruit of opportunity when it was at the peak of ripeness. Charlotte, God bless her soul, was too quick to try and jump back into the business world. The scandal surrounding their family’s decline was still too fresh, too raw, for any sort of long-lasting agreement to be made. Niklaas was able to keep a partnership with the confectionery companies, since they were run by friends who hadn't abandoned them as soon as shit hit the fan. Banks, on the other hand, turned down his requests for loans, and potential business partners acted like he carried the plague. He was steadily gaining interest to his savings account, but he was running out of money to spend on living, and fast. He took to the streets in an act of desperation, knowing that there was good money to be made in illegal drug rings. Mother, Father, forgive him. He was just trying to get their old life back.

He was smart enough to stay out of the sight of police, and had a sharp enough tongue and enough business sense to get some of the best deals for his product, but one does not deal in illegal substances without being baited themselves. He never hit the hard stuff, never once saw the appeal of snorting crystals up his nose, but mushrooms and marijuana just made the world seem so much better. He could forget about everything that was expected of him. For a few glorious hours, he wasn't a van Rosenfeld; he was just Niklaas. The family's name being in shambles seemed like someone else's problem, and it was amazing.

However, it seemed that Fate wasn’t quite done grinding its heel into his spine.

Charlotte did not approve of her brother's business dealings, and coming home high on more than one occasion didn't help his case. They argued several times, tempers running high and nerves wound up tight enough to snap at even the smallest flaw. Eventually Niklaas had enough of it- of all of it. He was tired of dealing with companies, tired of dealing with the bank and tired of his family's stupid reputation tightening the noose around his neck. Fucking sick and tired of Charlotte expecting him to snap his fingers and make everything alright again. Like what she was doing was any better, selling off every keepsake and memento of their parents like they didn't mean anything, making back-alley deals with people in the black market. What fucking right did she have to judge him? After a rather vicious argument, Niklaas packed up his entire life into a couple of suitcases, and got on a plane to The Netherlands.

Through a series of events, he would find himself entangled in the activities of a gang in the city. A gang who's leader had his fingers in the pies of “high ranking” individuals of the criminal world. Business savvy and fancy suits would get him nowhere in the criminal's world, but his proficiency with firearms would. Niklaas was well-known in the skeet-shooting circuit, so naturally the next logical step was to have a sniper rifle shoved into his hands, and be requested to take somebody out. His first target was a slippery wisp of a man, a complete drug addict who had been skipping his payments for far too long. He had become comfortable with getting his fix for free, but was killing him really the answer?

The gang leader pulled Niklaas in close and waved a wad of money in his face. “van Rosenfeld” he began, charismatic and smooth as silk. “Let me put it this way: the poor man will kill himself with his addiction sooner rather than later, yes? Think of it as an act of mercy. He would thank you for it, if his mind was still all there.” With that, he slipped the money into Niklaas' pocket and patted it for good measure. “I expect a nice, clean headshot.”

Making a stable living as a hitman is something that should only exist in fiction- an occupation to make a character “edgy”, yet Niklaas was able to accumulate a small fortune from the people he killed. The price people placed on a single human life rivaled what a wealthy man made in a year, and the Boss' connections in the criminal underworld scavenged up jobs from time to time. Occasionally his jobs would be simple things, like an employee wanting his dead-beat boss taken care of, or a hysterical wife wanting to make sure no one came after her family. Once or twice, he and the infamous "Wolf" crossed paths, but their meetings were always brief and unconfrontational. He never interfered with Niklaas' jobs directly, so he extended the same courtesy. He was, if nothing else, professional in his murders.

And then one day, everything fell into perspective. As a sniper, he never had to worry about getting to know his target. He would just pick a spot, pull the trigger, and never have to worry about what kind of people they were. But at the same time, those people probably had wives or husbands or children and fucking families. How many of the addicts he killed were just pushed to the brink? How many would-be drug lords were just fathers trying to provide for his family? How many of his targets had been young adults who had just gotten too far in over their heads...?

What the fuck was he doing with his life?

He was tired of being the man he was. He was so tired of being Niklaas van Rosenfeld. So fucking tired of being the Underground’s killer for hire. He used his underground connections to have a birth certificate forged. A new name, a new identity, a new everything. He was Niklaas de Vries now, born July 26th in Rotterdam to Alexander and Bella de Vries. He bid farewell to everyone who actually mattered to him, and in a dramatic twist of fate, went back to London. He eventually found his niche in the world working as a musician for the Vortex Jazz Club, and drowned out memories of his old life in heavy smoke and soul-lifting music. For the first time in over ten years, he finally felt free.

Give us a sample of how you role-play your character. The sample must be at least three hundred words long and can come from any Hetalia Role-play just as long is that it is the character that you are applying for. Members of TND before the v5 upgrade can copy and paste in a post from TND.