demonologist: (Default)
By the time Knox was called into Wes' office it was late afternoon. The day had been filled with minor, unavoidable frustrations. Tasks needing his attention. So much so that he hadn't been overly alarmed when Fred had stood him up for lunch. He'd barely grabbed a bite as it was. He resolved to touch base with her at the end of the day and perhaps organise something relaxing for the both of them. But in the meantime, he'd had work to focus on.

And an investigation to continue.

When Knox was showed in, he was flanked by two security men. Wes waved them off, however, and they retreated to take up position outside his door. He wanted to conduct his interview in private - at least, for now. He didn't fear for his safety, Knox was hardly what one would call menacing. And yet...Wes couldn't help but wonder if that laser incident hadn't been more than an unfortunate malfunction.

"Please, take a seat. I have some...concerns," Wes held up a pre-emptive hand, "and yes, I've already cleared this with Fred. It shouldn't take long, depending on how things go." He couldn't quite keep the touch of sarcasm from his tone, an air of cold distrust that the man managed to provoke in him whenever they were in contact.

For SJ

Apr. 2nd, 2013 01:46 pm
demonologist: (Default)
Wes took in a deep breath, enjoying the fresh, salty tang of the air and the cool breeze whipping past him. Dressed in a dark fisherman's sweater and jeans, he looked more relaxed than he had been for some time. Strange to think that he'd developed a taste for sailing. It wasn't something he'd have ever thought he'd have an affinity with.

He turned to look over his shoulder at his companion, his gaze becoming wryly amused when it alighted upon her.

"We haven't crossed over yet, don't you think that's a bit premature?" Not that he minded the view.

For Katie

Mar. 16th, 2013 08:01 pm
demonologist: (Default)
Wes was feeling a little sore. There were aches and abrasions all over his body from that night's mission, but he'd managed to soothe them somewhat with a hot shower once he'd returned to his apartment. There were limitations to what his human body could take, but he still pushed himself, going after the targets he chose with the support of his men, no matter how challenging. He needed it. Needed to remind himself that he could still make a difference. Even if he wasn't a 'whitehat' anymore.

The demon nest they'd raided that night was torched. It didn't make up for...other missteps, but it helped him to put a point on the other side of his mental tally.

Emerging from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and using another to dry his hair, he checked his cell for messages. Lilah's he began to delete without listening to them...
demonologist: (S4 - stubbled profile)
The past few weeks had been more than a little frustrating. Wes had tried to bear it with as much grace as possible and yet it would seem that the universe had conspired to work against his and Fred's intentions to spend more time with each other, while still keeping their friends and colleagues in the dark about how much closer they'd become. Neither of them had wanted to make Gunn or Knox uncomfortable and so they'd kept their romantic interest in each other extremely low key at work. That said, it had seemed that every time they'd tried to steal a few moments alone they'd been interrupted by work demands or an oblivious visit from Lorne or Spike or Harmony.

To top that off, their attempts at official dates outside of work hours had proven just as disastrous, often being derailed by monster attacks or other unfortunate coincidences. He was starting to think that they'd never find a blasted window of opportunity with which to explore their growing feelings for each other.

Wes wasn't a quitter, however, and he'd arranged for them to attend a play which he'd heard was very good that evening. He'd rescheduled several appointments and decided to put off some spell-work in order to make this happen. He popped around to see Fred at her laboratory to let her know what he'd had planned for them.

It was odd when he arrived, though, because the lab seemed strangely deserted. Investigating further, and having had no luck when he'd called out for Fred, Wes saw that there was a door which was displaying a green light, leading off to one of the smaller labs. He assumed that she or someone who might know where Fred was, was in there working on a project. He headed inside, then was startled when the door slid closed behind him and the light on the wall panel turned red.

"Hello? Is anyone there? What's going on?"

Rather than a reply, he was greeted by the sound of machinery whirring into life.
demonologist: (Default)
"Cordelia, please, just a few things. We're not going on safari." You urge her, then pick up the phone, intending to call Angel again. The sense of urgency is rife in the air. You need to leave soon, before Faith has a chance to track down-

"I've got a little problem. - I don't feel Angel's in the game. But, somehow, I feel you guys are the key.” She’s here. You freeze at the sound of her voice, then carefully set the phone down again. It’s too late, she’s found you both. “ Now what can I do to really make him hate me?"

"Faith." You need to talk her down. Try to make her see reason or at least stall for time.

"Shut up, Wesley."

You try again. "It's not too late."

"For cappuccino? 'cause it just keeps me up." Her flippancy can’t mask the hard, menacing edge to her tone.

"It's not too late to let me help you." You know the words ring hollow, but you mean them, all the same.

"Yes. We want to help you." Cordelia chimes in, you can tell she’s terrified out of her mind, but all you can give her is a quick bolstering look.

You step forward, trying to keep Faith’s focus on you. Perhaps if she’s distracted enough, Cordy can make a break for the door.

"I realize there have been failures, on both sides. - But I also believe in my heart that you are not a bad person." You have to make it convincing. There’s doubt there, though. Because you know what she’s capable of, what she’s done. In answer, Faith elbows Cordy hard in the face and she crumples to the floor. Your heart leaps painfully into your throat. No! Cordelia! Anger and outrage suddenly grips you hard.

Faith gives you a taunting smirk. "What do you believe in your heart now?"

You lash out with your fist, the punch connecting with her jaw. How dare she hurt another innocent. Your friend. It can’t go unanswered.

Faith pops back up, grinning, a manic sort of gleam in her eye. "Alright, Wes!” The congratulations just leaves the bitter taste of bile in your mouth, though. You know what’s coming next. “My turn."

You try to brace for it, but she kicks you clear across the room. The world goes dark.


You’re trying not to panic, but the darkness bears down on you like an unrelenting weight. It’s the same whether you close or open your eyes. Utter blackness. Your small eight year old fingers scrabble around the cramped space blindly, seeking an opening, or a handle, or something which might tell you where the door is. You recoil back when you brush against a soft and yielding substance which sticks to your fingers and makes you shudder. There was movement too. A spider? What if there are more? What if they’re poisonous? What if there are other creatures locked in with you? Supernatural creatures.

Your over-active imagination is kicking into high gear and your heart is clamouring in your chest, breaths turning short and shallow. The air is musty. Dry and stale on your tongue. Will you suffocate, or die of hunger or thirst first if he forgets that he put you here?

Was that a creak upon the stair above you?

“Father?” You call out feebly. Then try to sit up on your knees, pressing your face closer to the wooden panelling. Can he hear you?

You raise your voice a little, trying to make it carry further. “Father, please...I’ll be good. I promise.”

Another creak.

“Just let me out. Please.

The silence in response is deafening.


Your eyelids flutter, but it’s an effort to keep them open. Slowly and dully, you become aware of your situation, your surroundings. You’re tied to a chair. Every part of you aches. Your body has been brutally beaten. And you’re held fast, there’s no escape.

Faith is pacing in front of you, she notices your wakefulness and suddenly leaps onto your lap. You let out a muffled scream at the agony of her weight bearing down on your bound arms and legs and bruised muscles. She deliberately presses hard on a sore spot on your cheek and you try and fail to suppress a groan.

"All these little cuts and bruises - just bring out the mother in me.” You start to lose consciousness again and are grateful for it, but then she slaps you awake again. “Come on. Now, now, don't poop out on me, damn it! Otherwise this all just going to be over too fast, and you'll be dead and I'll be - bored. - Come on, Wesley! Where is that stiff upper lip?” You give her a baleful glare. It’s all you can do. Even the makeshift gag prevents you from voicing your defiance.

“Now, we've only done one of the five basic torture groups. We've done blunt - but that still leaves sharp, cold, hot and loud. Have a preference?” You nod in response. “Well, that’s great! It's always better with audience participation. - May I take your order please?"

She removes the gag and you spit on the floor, trying to get the blood out of your mouth. But your throat is so painfully dry, hoarse from the cries of pain it’s already muffled..

"I was your Watcher, Faith. - I know the real you - and even if you kill me, there is just one thing I want you to remember." It’s just a ploy, a gambit. Perhaps it won’t work, but Faith will want to hear what you have to say, you know she will. She kneels down, pretending to be attentive and almost tender. It’s an act.

"What's that, love?"

You steel yourself. Perhaps if you make it harsh enough she’ll snap and kill you; it’d make the pain stop and also prevent her from using you as a bargaining chip with Angel. He’s noble and idiotic enough to try to trade himself for you, you don’t doubt it. "You - are a piece of sh..."

Faith interrupts you, stuffing the gag back into your mouth: "You should talk, huh? I guess I'll just have to try a little harder."

There’s the sound of glass breaking. You failed to push her far enough. Now you’re going to pay for that.

"We'll switch to sharp for a while."


You’re trapped, there’s no escape. You’ve finally given up trying to bang and call for help and claw at the panels to pry them open on your own. All you’ve gotten for your troubles are splinters and a raw throat. You crumple in on yourself, finally giving in to despair. You can’t stop once you start, tears fall and quiet sobs escape from you, despite your attempts to hold them in.

A sliver of light appears. The tiniest crack of salvation running across the floor. A shadow moves beyond the wall.

“For heaven’s sake, stop snivelling,” comes the stern admonishment. You guiltily wipe at your eyes and try to comply, to dash away the tears and stifle your own sounds of distress. But you’re weak and your body is fighting you.

“I’m s-sorry,” you reply, your voice hitching embarrasingly in the middle.

“It’s for your own good, boy.”

The light disappears again and your father’s gone. You’re alone.


You’re barely able to stay conscious. New agonies assail you. You’ve lost track of time. The minutes and hours are starting to blur. All you know is that it’s never-ending. There’s no hope of respite.

If Angel finds you, it only means that he’ll be hurt as well, to see you like this. You don’t want him to see you like this. But you’re helpless to do anything but subtly squirm, trying to find a weakness in your bonds, ignoring the resulting pain in the effort.

Faith turns her attention to you again, dropping her shard of glass from her hand to the street below.

"That's refreshing. But I'm feeling a little cold. “ She pats your cheek condescendingly. “What do you say we warm the place up?"

Soon enough, there’s open flame being brought close. A lighter and some sort of accelerant. You don’t jerk back, you’re too exhausted to even react. This is your fate. There’s no saving yourself, even if you wish you could.

“Did you ever wonder if things would have been different - if we'd never met. What if you'd had Buffy - and Giles would have been my Watcher? You think you'd still be here right now? Or would Giles be sitting in that chair? - Or is it just like fate. You know, there is no choice. You were gonna be here no matter what. - You think about that stuff? - Fate - and destiny. “ She moves closer, and you try to brace yourself yet again. To prepare for more pain. “I don't. Not that any of this is your own fault.” She’s taunting you with bursts of the naked flame. Making you feel the searing heat but not yet burning you. It’s only a matter of time, though, before her teasing becomes reality. “Since this may be - the last chance we will have to unload on each other, I feel that it is kind of my duty to tell you that if you'd been a better Watcher, I might have been a more positive role model! Face it, Wesley, you really were a jerk. Always walking around as if you had some great big stake rammed up your - English Channel. “

You try your best not to flinch back at the flames she’s directing at your face, and apparently that angers her. She pulls the gag free, frowning. “I think I want to hear you scream."

"You never will." You declare, determined never to give her that satisfaction, no matter the cost.

Faith bends down, her gaze turning intent again, and her lips hovering close to your ear. “Admit it, Wesley, didn't you always kind of have the hots for me?"

You don’t have the energy to jerk your head away and deny it. What if she’s correct? What if you’ve had those sorts of twisted thoughts and just never acknowledged them. Not even to yourself. It’s possible, isn’t it? You’re not sure what’s real anymore. What is the truth, do you even know? Would she stop if you admitted it? Would she relent, if only for a few minutes?

Then the door crashes open and Angel is there, standing on the threshold. He came. You should never have doubted it. Before you can say anything, though, you feel your head being yanked back viciously by the hair and a too sharp blade being levelled at your throat.

"About time, soul-boy. Ready to play now?" She snarls at Angel, her fingers digging into your scalp and knife pressing tight against your jugular.

It never was about you. You realise that now. It’s one last proverbial sucker punch to the gut while you watch Angel’s expression darken and turn murderous on your behalf.

"I'm ready."


You’ve lost track of time. You have no idea how long you’ve been trapped here. Your tears have dried and crusted against your cheeks. You’re tired, filthy and hungry. You just want it all to end. You hate being stuck in here, with only your thoughts for company. All you can do is mull over and over again what you did wrong. What you should have said or done differently so as not to have found yourself where you are.

Finally it clicks.

The next time you think you hear the sound of a footstep, you press against the wall again.

“I’m not afraid anymore.”

Is he there?

“What’s that? Speak up, boy. Don’t mumble.”

You swallow hard and then try again. With a firmer voice, this time, and more conviction behind it. “I’m not afraid.”

There’s a long pause.

“I still don’t believe you.”

Your heart sinks and you slump back against the far wall. But then there’s an audible sigh and the sound of a latch being lifted and the wooden panel slides open, allowing light to flood in. You raise an arm to shield your eyes from the sudden change. You’ve been given a reprieve. You start to babble a thank you, but the words of gratitude are cut off by your father’s disapproving mien.

“Took you long enough. How very disappointing. Straight off to bed, then. And no supper. We’ll try this again tomorrow.”

demonologist: (Default)
It was beyond midnight now. The majority of the firm's workers had gone home and the offices were dark and emptied out for the most part. A quietness had settled upon the place which was oddly comforting considering the frenzied drama of earlier in the evening. Gunn had gone home almost immediately, but others had lingered. Wesley had retreated to his own office, ostensibly to work on the spell detailing he'd been planning to do. But in truth, he was shaken.

Sam Lawson had invaded their workspace. Terrorised them. And they'd nearly been killed before Angel had managed to defeat him. But that wasn't what had shaken Wes. No, what was worse was that the vampire had terrorised Fred and she had nearly been killed. It was bad enough that Gunn had also been in danger, but the image of Fred balanced precariously on her desk chair, her eyes wide with fright...he couldn't seem to get it out of his mind.

He'd taken a break to clear his head, making some hot, honey sweetened tea for his sore throat. Then without even thinking about it, he'd made a second cup and gone to check on Fred. Somehow he'd known in his gut that she hadn't left yet, either.
demonologist: (Default)
Backtagging: Absolutely, I will backtag forever. Although I tend to try to wrap things if it goes on for more than a month or so.
Threadhopping: I am usually fine with this if there's a good IC reason.
Fourthwalling: I would prefer not to have my character 4th walled if possible.
Offensive subjects: Can't think of anything off hand. If something comes up I'll let you know.

Hugging this character: Yes! I encourage it since it's the sort of thing that makes him all awkward and derpy having been brought up to eschew all PDA, physical contact etc.
Kissing this character: Sure! He'd probably be shocked and surprised and react in a pretty flustered fashion. Although he has been known to try to pick up the fillies, so it would depend on the situation.
Flirting with this character: Absolutely. He's a bit fail at it himself, but would enjoy some attention coming his way.
Fighting with this character: I'm up for it, but prefer to discuss things in ooc to make sure we're on the same page. Wesley is not a great fighter, so he'll tend to be on the losing end of any physical bust ups, I should think.
Injuring this character (include limits and severity): Only with OOC discusion, but if it makes IC sense, I will probably be cool with it.
Killing this character: As a general rule, no. However, if it's for good plot reasons, we can discuss it. Always good to ask, you never know.
Using telepathy/mind reading abilities on this character: Yep, totally fine and he really doesn't have a lot of resistance to it. There are a lot of embarrassing things and insecurities Wesley would rather other people didn't know about, so feel free to look at my application here to see if there are any tidbits you'd like to expose or simply discover secretly. If you plan to make things known, however, it might be good for a heads up, in case it might effect other plots.

My Permissions question for you:

Are you okay with randomly and accidentally being hit by a book in the library? XD
demonologist: (S2 - adjusting spectacles)
This is Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. I'm afraid I'm not available at the moment, but if you could leave a detailed message, I will get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you.

HMD post

Jul. 19th, 2012 12:37 pm
demonologist: (Default)
For any and all constructive criticism and feedback regarding my characterisation of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.

All comments will be screened. Anon enabled.
demonologist: (nowgold)
He still couldn't believe it. It had been hours since he'd gotten the news but it still hadn't quite sunken in that Cordelia was gone for good. Had died after months of being in her coma. He just...couldn't face that reality.

They'd only just been heading out for drinks. He'd hugged and talked to her. She had been as vibrant and alive as ever he'd seen her.

But Angel had confirmed it. She'd passed away. Never even regained consciousness. How had that been possible?

They'd all gone back the Hyperion. To reminisce. To tell stories about her. To celebrate her life. And he'd participated. Raised a few glasses in her honour. But he was on the downward spin. The thought of having lost her forever was sinking in.

Fred had offered to get him home and he'd accepted, but he'd fallen into a silence which he wasn't sure he'd ever rouse out of.

Cordelia. She was one of the best of them, and now she was gone.
demonologist: (S2 - adjusting spectacles)
Out of Character Information

player name: Annie.
player journal: [personal profile] succubint
playing here: None.
where did you find us? Through other RPers with muses in the game.
are you 16 years of age or older?: Yes.

In Character Information

character name: Wesley Wyndam-Pryce
Fandom: Angel the Series (Also Buffy the Vampire Slayer)
Timeline: Near the end of S1 episode 22, To Shanshu in LA.
character's age: 30

powers, skills, pets and equipment: Wesley doesn't possess any unusual supernatural abilities or powers prior to coming to Anatole. However, I would like to give him a power which relates to his love of the written word in all of its forms. I'd like to give him the added only for the game ability to use telekinesis, but only on books or written texts. I'd like this power to be quite difficult for him to control in the beginning and somewhat affected by his mental/emotional state.

Wesley's greatest gift (and in some ways his greatest weakness) is his exceptional intellect. Extensive knowledge of demonology, occult and supernatural lore. Brilliant academically, with knowledge in a wide range of subjects from the classics, to history, biology, and chemistry. Expert in many human and non-human languages and dialects, including those of ancient cultures and supernatural/demonic races. An excellent researcher and archivist. Trained in various forms of combat including hand to hand, fencing, martial weapons, crossbow and firearms with varying degrees of skill. He is particularly competent with sharp-shooting and favors range weapons when given the choice. Excellent strategist when it comes to military maneuvers (although largely untested at this canon point). He has moderate skill at arcane sorcery, but largely the kind which involves extensive research and complicated rituals to perform. He is not a natural wizard, by any means.

He has no pets to speak of, and will most likely not be arriving with any sort of personal items of note. I'd like to take him right after he reads out the Scroll of Aberjiian to free Cordelia from the demon Vocah's cursed mark. Which will mean he will be dressed in a pale blue hospital gown, a dark blue robe and slippers. He'll be sporting two gauze bandages on his face, and have a bandaged left hand. He's also sitting in a wheelchair and hooked up to an IV. I'm fine with not having the wheelchair transported if that's problematic. Wesley is holding the Scroll of Aberjian when he performs the unbinding spell. Would it be alright if he brings this with him to the game? Ironically, I just rewatched the scene where he reads out the prayer and here is a snippet:

"...But thou shalt find the sacred words of Anatole and thou shalt be restored. Three times shall thou say these words: unbind, unbind, unbind."

canon history: Wesley was born and raised in England, although the exact location of where his family resides is unknown. There is a reference to Cambridge, so I have headcanoned that as a possible area of familiarity. An only child, Wesley was subjected to a strict and demanding childhood under the dominance of his overbearing father Roger Wyndam-Pryce, who is a longstanding member of the Watcher's Council and a man he never quite feels he can measure up to.

Wesley attended an all boy's preparatory school before being accepted into the Watcher's Academy in South Hampshire where he eventually gained the prestigious rank of Head Boy. Upon graduating, Wesley joined the Watcher's Council as a fully fledged member. He was assigned to replace Rupert Giles as Watcher of both Buffy Summers and Faith Lehane with little to no actual field experience under his belt. His inexperience lead to a mishandling of the situation when Faith was at a moral crossroads which ultimately led to Faith turning rogue and Wesley being sacked from the council for incompetence.

Denied financial assistance for a ticket back to England and completely directionless, Wesley decided to become an independent demon hunter, roaming the country for cases where he could apply his training and expertise and still fight the good fight. This eventually led him to Los Angeles where he met up with Angel and Cordelia and joined their cause as part of Angel Investigations. Together they attempted to fight the forces of darkness one case at a time, helping those who needed help with supernatural and paranormal problems. Wes' watcher training and his expertise with ancient languages and extensive knowledge of demons helped them to overcome many difficult challenges.

One of Wes' biggest early challenges was translating the prophecies Angel stole from the evil law firm Wolfram and Hart. It spoke of a vampire with a soul, and how he would shanshu. It took Wesley some time to decipher that it meant Angel might eventually, after many trials, gain the reward of human mortality.

Another notable event was his former charge Faith escaping from Sunnydale and coming to LA. Employed as an assassin by Wolfram and Hart, she terrorized Angel's friends, abducted Wesley and tortured him nearly to death before Angel intervened and discovered she was suffering an emotional meltdown due to guilt over her many crimes.

External links: ;

personality: Wesley has the typical British reserve and isn't particularly chatty or verbose except when it comes to expounding on matters where he believes has some considerable expertise. Which is quite often, actually. He's highly educated and of an intellectual bent so that will come across in his vocabulary and mannerisms. Some may find him a touch irritating and arrogant because of this. He also possesses a rather dry acerbic wit.

Wes is cerebral by nature and largely governed by logic and reason in his decision-making processes. He is often repressive of his own emotions and personal desires, and can sometimes come across as lacking in compassion or caring when, in fact, he does feel and care deeply for others. He has a tendency towards introspection and over-thinking his own actions and those of others. That's not to say he can't react quickly and decisively to situations, but he does often dwell on things. The past, the present, the future.

Perhaps the biggest driving forces behind his personality have been his strong sense of duty and a perpetual need to prove himself worthy, to gain the approval and respect of his peers and ultimately his father. While intellectually gifted in many ways, Wesley has suffered from an underlying fear of failure which was instilled in him at an early age.

His Watcher father, an exacting and dominating individual, taught him the importance of striving for excellence, discipline and a strict adherence to rules and tradition. Unfortunately this manifested itself into Wesley being conservative and inflexible in his approach to his Watcher duties and also rather rigid in how he viewed moral issues. There's also canon evidence that that Roger Wyndam-pryce was an abusive father, locking his son under the stairs as a punishment, verbally belittling him whenever he felt disappointment in Wesley's achievements, or lack thereof. When Wesley was six or seven, he stole a scroll from his father's library and attempted to resurrect a dead bird. This was perhaps his first act of defiance against his father, and Wes' perception of self-worth as an individual has continued to be deeply influenced by what he believes his father (even in absentia) would think of his actions and decisions. This sort of desire for external validation from a perceived figure of authority has also been evident in his dealings with the Watcher Rupert Giles and Angel.

I see the pre-Watcher Wesley as a rather lonely boy who turned to books and academic accomplishments to compensate for the lack of familial warmth and support. It was also the only avenue with which he could strive to please his father. Most likely he did not make friends easily, especially with Roger vetting anyone who might wish to get socially closer to the youth. He would have developed the kind of personality in school which others probably labelled as stuck up. It would not surprise me if he earned the reputation of being a stick in the mud, a goody two shoes and a prat.

Lacking in having close family and friends in those early formative years, I can see Wesley having relied on his intellectual and academic prowess to give himself status. Thus his propensity to arrogantly pontificate and correct his colleagues on matters he felt he was an authority on. It was really his only outlet in where he had felt some measure of confidence and self-satisfaction. And even then it could be easily undermined by insecurity and doubt if he was proven wrong in his theories or decisions based upon his expert opinion.

Wesley's desperate need for respect and approval over the years has led to him becoming a bit of a try-hard. Eager to please others almost to the point of being a hindrance at times. His over-zealousness to offer aid and assistance sometimes turned him into a bit of a bumbling idiot, especially when he was in a situation which made him feel deeply insecure.

Since joining Angel's agency however, these moments of puppy-dog enthusiasm and physical clumsiness are gradually becoming a little less frequent. Maturity and having gained more field experience (plus the bonds of friendship he has formed with those in Angel Investigations), has aided Wesley into growing into a slightly more capable and valuable member of their team. He's certainly far more competent than he was back in the Sunnydale days. Through his interactions with Angel and Cordy, Wesley has finally started to gain a sense of belonging and purpose, of being a part of a family. This has been extremely important to him in terms of becoming more comfortable in his own skin and healing his rather stunted self-esteem. The insecure needy little boy within himself still remains, it's just buried a little bit deeper in his psyche than before.

At his core, Wesley is a gallant and a romantic idealist. This sometimes means that while charmingly chivalrous and rousing in his rallying speeches, he can also be unwittingly patronizing to members of the female gender, or overly sanctimonious and self-righteous when it comes to debating moral issues. But he is always well-intentioned and wants to fight the good fight, wants to believe that good will ultimately triumph over evil if one is dedicated enough to battle such forces on a daily basis.

why do you feel this character would be appropriate to the setting?
Despite being a human with no extraordinary powers or abilities at his disposal, Wesley has been preparing to battle supernatural threats since before he could pick up a pen. He will be no stranger to dangerous environments or strange events which normally would be brain-breaking and horrifying to the average person. He's dedicated himself to being a 'warrior scholar' of sorts, and a place like Anatole would both give him something to focus his efforts and previous training on and pose an intriguing puzzle for him to want to unravel over time.

Writing Samples

Network Post Sample:

[Wes is waking up, looking very groggy and disoriented.]

What in the blazes...?

[He's surprised to find himself no longer in the psychiatric unit of the hospital. He's alarmed, to say the least. He spins around in his wheelchair, trying to get his bearings.]

Angel? Cordelia?

[He's trying not to panic, but this is highly unusual. The first thought which comes to mind is that this is the work of Wolfram and Hart. Some new gambit in their quest to bend the souled vampire to their collective will. There's a device on his lap, on top of the scroll he'd just been reading from. It appears to be transmitting. Wesley adjusts his spectacles in a grave manner, takes a bracing breath and stares at what he presumes is the recording aperture. Trying to appear unfazed and intimidating in a hospital gown, while looking completely battered and bruised from a bomb explosion is not the best look, but by god he will give it a good try.]

Whoever you are, this is not going to work. You will not be able to turn me against my friends no matter what devious schemes you have in play. Nor will I allow myself to be used as leverage or bait.

[He attempts to push himself to his feet, so as to appear less infirm, but only gets so far and has to ease himself back down again. So much for a display of strength. His resolve will not waver, however.]

While I may not possess superhuman strength or other otherworldly powers, I can still hold my own.

So, if you would kindly return me to where I was, that would be very much appreciated. I have some rather urgent business to attend to. It's quite literally a matter of life or death.

Third Person Sample:

Wesley stood outside of the Folkhaven Archival library, slight hesitation causing his hand to hover over the doorknob. He'd been informed that he needed to see it. He hadn't been able to, at first, those first few days being frustrating in terms of how much rest he'd still needed in order to recover. To even be strong enough to walk unaided. But he was well enough now and so...

He took a bracing breath and then pushed the doors open.

What greeted him made him freeze in his tracks, his breath caught in his throat. It was more than he'd expected. Beautiful, even. No matter what people said about the ease of computer technology, the convenience of having things accessible at one's fingertips, it couldn't compare to the visceral quality of being in a proper library. Every one had it's own character. Atmosphere. Distinctive scents. Wood polish, leather, parchment...

Why would one give up the tactile pleasure of turning a weathered page to see what words flowed next, or hearing the soft thumping sound of a tome being closed? No matter what anyone else said, it engaged all of the senses. For him, browsing in a library was an experience that was not stuffy and out-dated in the slightest. There was a wealth of knowledge and imagination at his fingertips and that, was utterly compelling.

His fingers practically itched to pull a book from the shelf. Any shelf. And just to see what was housed between the covers. Would he know the text? Have read it before? Or would it be something new. Unfamiliar words, facts, ideas to explore and discover.

For the first time since he'd arrived in Anatole, Wes felt in his element. He smiled and reached for the nearest text. Perhaps this adventure wouldn't be as harrowing as he'd first thought.

Anything else? Wesley is a character who constantly evolves and reinvents himself throughout his canon. Although being pulled prior to the events of S3 where he betrayed Angel in order to save his son and was shunned from the group, it should be noted that Wesley has occasionally portrayed a pragmatism and ruthlessness which has hinted at this darker turn in his persona. As the series develops it becomes clear that Wes is capable of making the hardest sorts of decisions, often at his own personal expense, in the name of the greater good.
demonologist: (S4 - fallen from grace)
Wes' eyelids flutter open. He's strapped to a chair. The chair. No matter how hard he struggles and strains, he can't seem to get himself free.

Bennett comes to hover at his elbow, smirking savagely. Heated words are exchanged. The argument ends with her leaning closer and jerking his head back sharply by his hair; newly functional fingers twisting cruely in the dark tufts. There's no escape. She's the one in control now.

She goes back to her computer to perform some last minute checks. She's deaf to his appeals to see reason. She's being perfectly rational.

The chair slowly begins to tilt backwards.

His eyes widen and finally she sees it. Fear. He's trying so hard to hide the panic he's experiencing, but she catches it. On the monitors too. Breaths rapid and shallow. Heartrate reaching tachycardic levels. Epinephrine spiking. Science doesn't lie.

She makes sure the procedure is as painful as possible. Turns to watch him arch in his restraints, convulsively squirming and twitching. So undignified and embarrassing. He can't control it. It makes a bubble of laughter push its way up out of her mouth. Her fingers cover her lips briefly to keep the sound in, almost out of habit, but then she realises there's no-one else there and so she deliberately drops her hand and allows herself the manic giggle.

As soon as it's over and the chair tilts back, she steps forward and starts to loosen the straps. One by one.

It happens so quickly that she barely has time to squeak out a gasp when Wes springs into action, lunging for her. His momentum carries them backwards until her hip impacts painfully against the computer desk. He has her by the throat and for a frantic moment she can't breathe. He demands to know what she did to him. She refuses to answer, shaking her head, one hand clawing at his fingers. His grip tightens for a second or two but then he finally releases her, his weight shifting back onto his heels. He stares at her, breathing hard. His gaze is absolutely murderous. She stares back, her gaze just as deadly. Then her hand comes up to slap his face. Hard. It stings, but it also makes herself feel better. She does it again, putting all of her fury into it, until she's flailing at him with both hands, trying to release everything that's bottled up inside of her.

It's all his fault. All of it. He's vile. He's ruined everything. She wants to kill him. Make him suffer. She wants to-

Wes grabs at her wrists, preventing her from hitting him again and drags her over to the chair, shoving her back against it. One hand gets free and she strikes him again, tries to scratch at his face. He stops her, his brute strength outmatching hers. Then he's cupping her face and kissing her hard and deep. He has her pinned and there's no escape. She can't breathe again. She digs her fingernails as hard as she can into the back of his neck, but that just makes him gasp against her lips and press even closer.

She hasn't been able to forget it. What he did. No matter how hard she's tried. It's all his fault. Her fingers twist into his hair again but this time it's to encourage him. Their mouths continue to clash, if she's biting, though, it's to excite as well as punish. She doesn't have to be gentle. She doesn't have to care if she's hurting him. His hands are rough, slipping under her sweater and squeezing a breast, shoving up the hem of her skirt, pulling her panties down with an impatience which makes her breath catch in her throat. But then he's kneeling down and she can feel the scrape of his stubble against her thighs and it's her turn to arch back in the chair, gasping. Her turn to convulsively twitch and squirm while Wes does things to her that she's read about, even programmed, but never actually experienced yet. She clutches at the chair behind her, squeezing her eyes shut. Tries to imagine it's Topher, but she can't.

This all Wes' fault.

When it's all over and she's spent, her whole body tingling with pleasure, she starts to realize the enormity of what she's done. Wes shifts upwards, trying to kiss her again. More gently this time. The way that he's looking at her- She shoves him back hard, trying to scramble to her feet. To push down her skirt and – oh god, oh god. Wes starts to glare at her, hurt by her reaction, wasn't this what she wanted? She shakes her head at him, denying it. Get back into the chair. Don't you want a treatment? His expression turns docile and he meekly moves to do as she commands.

Bennett hurries over to the console, to restart the program in reverse. No-one needs to know. She'll get him back to his room and he won't remember. She's agitated now. Pressing fingers to her temple, feeling the urge to pace, to pick at and readjust her clothing. Wait, where are her--?! She scuttles over to where they are discarded on the floor. God, she's disgusted with herself, but she slips them back on and tries to smooth down her skirt and her hair. No-one needs to know. It will be a secret. It didn't happen. Not really. It wasn't real. Not real. Not real.

Faith clambers over the window sill, all cocky grins and 'didn't you miss me, nerd boy' attitude.

Topher rolls his eyes a little, but he's glad to see her. He's been feeling better, more himself. Even ventured out of his room a few times.

“No, please, come in, I insist.” He quips, zipping up his hoodie and shifting over slightly on the bed so she can plop down if she wants to.

She pokes at him experimentally. “Not plastic anymore, huh?”

“Nope. One hundred percent man-flesh.” He blushes after-the-fact.

“Good, 'cos I got something for you to check out for me. This was slipped under my door this morning. I've got no idea what it is, but since you're like the go-to guy for all things geek-related in this town, I figured you'd know.” She tosses him a compact flash drive.

Topher catches it and peers at it curiously. “Someone sent you mysterious tech-mail? What are we? In a spy movie?”

She swats at his arm and then casually rolls a shoulder. “So, doofus, what does it do?”

“What does it do?! God, you are so adorable, like a little Amish girl. I just want to pinch your cute dimpled luddite cheeks.”

Faith gives him a blank look. “I don't even know what that means.”

“And that's probably for the best.” He moves to turn on his laptop.

Scowling at him, just in case he's making fun of her and not in a good way. “FYI? You goose it? You lose it.”

“It was just a figure of speech. This is a flash drive. It stores data files. Okay, give me a sec to plug this baby in. Huh. It's not even password protected or encrypted. That's no fun. Scanning for viruses. Checks out. So, what do we have here? A video file. Click!”

As soon as the file begins to play, the air seems to leave the room. There's no audio attached to the footage. But it's not like they need it to figure out what's going on. Neither of them says anything. It's like they're transfixed by what's playing out on the computer screen. It can't be happening. It's not real. It reaches the end, then loops back to the beginning again.

“Shut it off.” Faith finally manages. “Now! Shut it-!” Topher's being too slow to react, so Faith yanks out the flash drive and crushes it with her fist. Then picks up the laptop – cables and all – and flings it at the wall with a primal yell of rage. Topher flinches back with a whimper, trying to shield himself from the shattered pieces of plastic and metal flying everywhere. He's still reeling from what he just saw. It can't be true. Bennett would never do that. She would never--

He's being pushed back roughly on the bed, elbow crushing his chest, pinning him down. Faith's straddling his hips, her eyes wild, lips curling back into a predatory snarl. She's scaring him.

“I told her what would happen. I freakin' warned her! Now I gotta make good. So, let's take you for a spin, Pinocchio, see if all of your moving parts are still in working order. Whaddaya say?”

He doesn't get an answer.
demonologist: (Default)
Greetings citizens of Bete Noire. Some of you may know who I am, others may not. My name is Wesley Wyndam-Pryce and today is my one year anniversary of having been pulled, against my will, to this rather unique city. It hasn't been easy living here. I've seen and experienced many things, not all of them pleasant nor heartwarming. Others have been here longer and most likely can recall similar upheavals and trials which have taxed us as a group of seemingly disparate people. The past year has tested our resolve as individuals and there have been times when I've despaired and wondered if there was a point to it all.

But, I, like many of us, have begun to view this place my home. I wish to protect it and support my fellow citizens who reside here.

[His posture straightens a bit and he subtly shifts a typed out piece of paper in front of him.]

I would now like to issue this formal statement:

On my world, there is a privately funded organisation called the Watcher's Council. Its primary mission has been to protect and preserve humanity from threats of extinction and exploitation by supernatural entities. This organisation has existed in some form or another since before the written word was invented and will continue to work tirelessly and thanklessly towards that goal, no matter the hardships, the sacrifices and seemingly insurmountable odds which have been faced in this pursuit.

[Wes pauses for a moment, frowning slightly. Then reaches up to rub at his temple. It appears as if he's lost what he was about to say. The silence stretches for long enough that it's uncomfortable for anyone watching. When he speaks again, it seems more off the cuff, and unrehearsed as it were.]

We've had various support groups start up in the city. This is a good thing, of course. However, there has been some rather vocal lobbying for supernatural rights as if this city were somehow rife with rights violations by those in authority. I won't deny that peaceful and law-abiding non-human individuals have been unjustly victimised and subjected to hate crimes. This is deplorable and must stop. Law enforcement will hopefully deal with them as they would any crime committed in the city. But to assert that those in power have treated a section of the population any differently, or in a prejudicial way? I have yet to see demonstrable proof of this.

And, while we're talking about it, who will fight for human rights? For the many orphans, displaced persons, destroyed families, or the killed but revived, maimed or injured people who face financial hardships due to hospital or funereal bills, those have lost everything due to the ongoing attacks by those vampires, werewolves, demons and other creatures which still prey on humans - in defiance of the law and with no desire to be a part of a community - because they are viewed as weaker, inferior chattel on a daily basis? It's a rampant problem which this city seems to have become innured to. Jaded. Oh, another massacre of humans, who cares? Five teenagers had their souls sucked from their bodies in a cemetery? They probably were asking for it. Have any of you made donations to the charities which try to pick up the pieces afterwards? Have any of you done volunteer work to show that the survivors of such attacks are not alone? Do you know what it's like to be viewed as a food source? Or a vessel for incubating spawn? To walk the streets and know that someone is hunting you? It's not even a species issue, it's about treating people with respect-

[Realising that he's gone completely off script and will likely face a reprimand for it, he lets out a pent up breath and forces himself to look back down at the prepared statement in front of him and read out loud what is written there.]

For too long, the humans in this city have been deprived of a counterpoint to the rhetoric being tossed around that humans are collectively a fearful, ignorant and inherently racist group.

Towards that end, I have been assigned as official Watcher to Bete Noire. I will serve as a liaison, working to ensure that human interests are given equal support and voice within the city. It is my aim to raise awareness of the issues which concern a significant portion of the population which, to our view, has for some time been woefully under-represented.

If anyone has any concerns which they feel are not being properly addressed by the correct authorities, then I pledge to listen. To hear them out. And to do what I can to find a solution to the problem.

The Watcher's Council has officially come to Bete Noire. We watch. We observe. We hold the line against the coming darkness. Those who would perpetuate supernatural crimes against the innocent and seek to get away with it, will be held accountable for their actions.
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