Dimanche. 14 août 2016 3:00 PM. Belle journée.
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 Postes principaux avec: NOM ICI
Lieu:
Interagir avec: Utilisation mentions
⩥ N A M E:
Wesley Elizabeth Gray.
⩥ N I C K N A M E:
Wes. Self-explanatory - it's the shortened form of her first name.
⩥ G E N D E R:
Female.
⩥ A G E:
Seventeen.⩥ May 22, 1999.
⩥ B L O O D S T A T U S:
Pureblood.
Werewolf (bitten).⩥ Bitten in the summer of 2008 by Raff Conan.

Wesley’s eyes bore into the mirror, never letting her eyes drift from her face. The loose tee slides easily over her frame and she doesn’t bother to make sure it’s smoothed out, but instead moves to cover the mirror with a dark piece of cloth.
This is the daily ritual for Wesley. Because, to others, she definitely doesn’t look bad, but to Wesley, her appearance is hideous.
Many see her as an attractive girl – she’s not particularly feminine, but rather more so on the masculine side. She’s not masculine so much in how she looks, except for her slightly broad shoulders and curveless frame, but in her slouched demeanor and choice of clothes. When it comes to clothes, Wesley likes plain t-shirts with v-necks or sleeveless ones with dropped armholes and baggy jeans or shorts; she also has a taste for flannel and long silver necklace. Most of the time, her hair is a mess and looks tangled – and no matter how much she brushes it, it stays the same. Very rarely, Wesley can be seen wearing glasses since she’s near-sighted, but it only comes once every blue moon. People tend to take her smeared makeup and eye bags and sometimes sickly pallor as a fashion statement, a grunge edgy attire that Wes seems fond of - of course, that’s not exactly true; Wesley just has a habit of rubbing her eyes and, well, the other things can be explained by something else entirely.
Wesley doesn’t exactly see this image of herself – ever since she tends to have a low opinion on her beauty. Underneath her clothes, she knows there are long, thick red and white scars, some small and in the crescent shape of pressed nails and some long like that of an animal’s claws on a tree. They litter her stomach and back – though some on her back look rather strange and different than the usual on her, like they were made from being scratched against something too hard – and there’s even a scar on the back of her neck which she covers with her brown hair. It’s because of her insecurity in her appearance that Wesley searches for the beautiful.

⩥ H O U S E:
Tituba.
⩥ Y E A R:
Seventh.
⩥ E L E C T I V E S:
Care of Magical Creatures.
Muggle Studies.
Divination.
⩥ B E S T C L A S S:
Astronomy.When you're constantly looking at the night sky, it's hard not to know everything about it. Wes has learned how to read the stars like a fuckin' centaur and knows a helluva lot of their names, too. She makes it a point to keep track of all planetary and constellation cycles in her plethora of journals - but, most importantly, she keeps a good eye on the moon cycles at all times.
⩥ W O R S T C L A S S:
Defense Against the Dark Arts.Wes likes to blame it on her temperamental wand - but the matter of the truth is, spellwork isn't Wes's strong point. Swishing a wand and expecting things to happen has always been a sore spot on her school record. Unfortunately, unlike Herbology or History of Magic, there's no way to fix it. She's pretty much fucked when it comes to Defense Against the Dark Arts.
⩥ C L U B S:
Astronomy Club: Member.
Divination Club: Member.
Quidditch: Beater.

⩥ W A N D:
An extremely expensive silver lime wand with the core of a wampus cat hair and is rather, unfortunately, whippy.
⩥ P A T R O N U S:
German Shepard.Not that it matters, since she can't produce one anyways.
"The german shepherd is, by nature, a rescuer. They tend to seek out people or tasks they are in need of aid, and they gravitate toward them, having what you could call a hero complex. They are somewhat stoic in their own emotional nature, because they are much more interested in the needs of others rather than their own. Thoughts of materialstic objects and over dramatic ideals are trivial to them, because they are very simple and basic in their needs, and comfortable that way."
⩥ B O G G A R T:
Long, heavy metal chains with manacles at the end. When using the "riddikulus" charm, granted if it works, the metal chains become ferrets with ridiculously long torsos.
⩥ F A M I L I A R:


Catsnek is a docile and loving ferret that could never bring any harm onto anyone except for those damned tiny humans. Yes, the sweet-natured Catsnek has a deep hatred for children - anyone under the age of fourteen is considered a heathen in her eyes and she'll claw the soul out of them before she let's one touch her. It is a blessing really that Wes got her when she was fifteen and not anything below that, or their relationship would be a whole lot more sour.

⩥ P E R S O N A L I T Y:
There’s a lot more to Wesley Gray than what people think. For example, Wesley Gray is like an onion. Not because she stinks, not because she makes people cry – though that’s not quite wrong – but because she has layers. To most, she’s the bad girl of Tituba – the reject, the rebel without a cause, the slut, and the girl who one time got a month’s worth of detention for skinny-dipping in Lake Blue – and would have gotten away with it if it weren’t for those pesky mermaids complaining to Headmistress Endicott. But to really get to know Wesley Gray, really understand her, one has to dig their nails into that onion and slowly pry the layers apart until they reach the core.
Wesley sits in class, her mouth twitching into a smirk with every question – stupid or smart – asked; her fellow classmates are all in front of her, frozen into their seats, uninterested in Wesley’s snarky comments muttered underneath her breath. This is the first layer, the onion sitting untouched on a chopping board – the basic appearance free for all to see. Wesley is the rebellious girl, who refuses to conform – who goes out of her way to not conform to what people expect of her. Is Wesley expected to be a smart student, a good student, an obedient student? Is intelligence the new black? Wesley won’t try, she spews the expectations onto their faces. Wesley is the sarcastic girl, the one with acerbic spit of sarcasm and judgment. She doesn’t give people chances, she makes one-second decisions based on their clothes, their appearances, that one sentence she overheard. First impressions are the only impressions a person is able to leave on Wesley, because that’s the only chance they will get before Wesley writes them off. To those who Wesley has built an idea upon, having assigned an archetype, will be at the end of sarcastic remarks and wit. Ninety percent of what Wesley says is sarcasm and the other ten percent expletives – she does have quite the pottymouth. Wesley is the girl who looks for the thrill, who seeks the adrenaline to run through her veins – a brave daredevil who backs down from no challenge, who jumps off the cliff when dares, who seeks adventures, who wants to make memories.
Wesley lets her hands, stained with white clay and marbled dust, glide over her current muse’s arm muscles. Her lover is still and silent, but the warmth of their skin vibrates every cell in Wesley’s being. This is the second layer - the onion’s thin skin laying shattered and flaked across the chopping board, a simple knife laid next to it; the onion’s ripped thin walls only for the kitchen cooks to see. Likewise, only a select few people are able to see this part of her: the part of her that always has her head in the clouds. Wes is a daydreamer, her mind always gone to a place that no one else can see where she creates her sculptures uninhibited. Not many people would know, but Wesley is imaginative and creative and her mind is always running with ideas. Here, Wesley lets her mind wander – here, Wesley discovers the beauty that she so craves to see, the esthetics she wishes to experience; and those select few, those kitchen cooks, witness her love for such beauty, the way her eyes glaze and her inspiration starts running when she sees something as simple as someone running their hands through their hair. But they also witness what makes Wesley a Tituba, rather than a Good. Her head is almost permanently stuck in the clouds – Wesley is easily distracted and unfocused, she can’t pay attention in class, she tunes out in the middle of a conversation, and she loses interest in whatever she was currently doing rather quickly. Furthermore, Wesley gives up rather easily and doesn’t toil for results – she’s a classic underachiever who rather accept a failing grade or a mediocre result in favor of keeping her sanity intact. The only time Wesley really tries is when it comes to her sculpting and competitive swimming.
It is also at this point that her friends become acquainted with the nastiness of her personality – she’s hot-headed, quick to anger, and when she becomes mad at someone she typically stays mad at them (just ask Raven McCailin, who she was once friends with in first year). The worst part isn’t even Wesley’s tendency to hold grudges over a person’s head, but the pettiness that tends to come out when she’s angry – Wes has no problem dealing low-blows at someone who has earned her ire and only sometimes does she actually regret doing it.
Green grass gradating into wet sand tickles and sticks Wesley’s back from where she is stretched across the shoreline of Lake Blue. She is alone, an emptiness in her heart and a pressing nervousness that the waxing gibbous moon brings. Paralleled, the chef releases a triumph cry as he peels the last layer from the onion off and the core sits, bare and fragile in his palm – no one else to witness it, but him. But how could the chef know what that core holds in it? How could that chef witness the burning hatred and rage that Wesley feels vibrating in her core? She’s angry, so hateful, and it’s directed at no one and everyone – Wesley, above the petty grudges she holds against people, above the quick lashing she gives to strangers, is mad at the world. Wes is a pessimist who sees no light at the end of the tunnel – and if she can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel, what’s the point? The point of living, the point of caring, the point of giving a fuck? She can’t find it; she’s blinded by shadows – so she doesn’t care. Wes is callous and careless, she doesn’t care what destruction she lives on the path she walks, or even on herself. She just wants everything to burn. Maybe, even, she specifically wants to punish herself by burning away everyone who cares about her – punish herself for being a monster…because that’s all she is, isn’t it? Wes knows she’s a monster, knows she’s pathetic and worthless and a stain on the world’s surface – she should be punished, shouldn’t she.
Beneath this anger and self-loathing, a less noticeable part of her lurks. The part that she thought was killed the day she was bitten. Because, for all her bad traits and insufferable thoughts, Wesley is a loyal person – she’s faithful, ironically almost like a dog. She trusts and is loyal to those who are loyal to her and she’ll put her life on the line for them, if they stay true to her. A protective person by nature, a close friend can always count on Wesley to shield them from harm when they need it, count on her to step in when things get too heated for them. Wesley, at the heart, is pure: she has no ulterior motives, no hidden schemes, her feelings are straight-forward and Wesley thinks with her heart rather than her head, which may make her slightly irrational, but her empathetic nature makes up for it. Unexpectedly enough, Wesley immensely enjoys physical affection with her close people – but she’ll never admit it, even when she’s crawling into their bed late in the night because of a nightmare.
⩥ R O M A N T I C I N T E R E S T S:
Wes has a taste for tall, striking people. She's a girl who is swayed mostly by beauty - not directly meaning feminine beauty, but masculine as well. Wes appreciates perfection in other human beings, searching for a perfection that she feels she herself lacks. People who are blessed with a certain holding of their being, an aura that oozes from them. Her love for the natural human body can be likened to Ancient Greek sculptures and their craving for the perfect man and woman. Wes lusts for artful appearances; people whose bodies inspire her hands to sculpt and her mind to reel. It can't be hard to imagine that Wes has had many lovers, though most are not kept for long as she chases another muse - but she has yet to stumble across her Adonis.
⩥ L I K E S:
 Cuddling (though she won't admit it).
 Spring, when it's not too cold or too hot.
 Swimming in a crystal blue lake, where she can see the bottom of it.
 Food buffets - eating all she can eat and piling all that food on her plate.
 Burgers. Big, meaty homemade burgers with lettuce, tomatoes, extra pickles, and ketchup. But no mayo.
 Nice soft quilts handmade by her Nanny.
 Cold apple cider.
 Mushrooms. Not the drugs, or the food. But wild mushrooms. Not to eat, she just likes how they look.
⩥ D I S L I K E S:
 Wet socks.
 Mayonnaise.
 Sweet foods.
 Excessive body hair.
 Thunderstorms.
 Peanut butter.
 Dog jokes (she barely tolerates them from her cousin).
 Strong, overpowering smells.
 Making eye contact.
⩥ H O B B I E S:
 Swimming.
 Astrology.
 Sculpting.
 Puzzles.
⩥ F E A R S:
 Someone grabbing her ankles and dragging her away.
 Being confined.
 Nights of the full moon.
 Killing someone.
⩥ B A C K G R O U N D:
Montana was a beautiful state – it really was – but it was rather empty. But perhaps that’s what Wesley Gray’s many-greats-grandfather liked about it when they settled out west; the vastness, the room to roam and grow roots like a big willow tree. Funny how such an open place would end up being a prison for the Gray family later on in life – no matter how hard anyone tried, nobody made it out of the wretched state permanently. Every time someone left, they somehow found themselves drifting back. Wesley’s father wasn’t any exception (but that’s another story for later).
The once humble many-greats-grandfather built himself a pureblood empire in Montana on the backs of overworked house elves and cheap labor. And, along with this empire, he had a family – a large one, rather, with seven children. Like Alexander the Great, he came, he saw, he conquered, and then he died and split his wealth amongst the seven of them. Some of his children invested wisely and others let the money dwindle along the descent line. Unfortunately, Wesley came from a line of chronic spenders that nearly dried their bank accounts to the bare metal. This’s isn’t to say they were poor – they had a moderate amount of wealth, more so than the average wizard, of course, but most of it was self-made.
Obviously, Wesley Gray wasn’t born into vast Proctor-esque wealth, but she had more than enough. Her parents loved her, too, and were proud of their pureblood daughter. Growing up, Wesley spent most of her time playing outside in the woods and in the small creek; often times, Wesley would play with her close friend and cousin, Garrett. Sometimes Wesley would sneak into the house and eavesdrop on her parents’ conversations – most of them cursing muggleborns or half-bloods, sneering at werewolves or “those veela folk.” Wesley didn’t think much of it – she knew they were bad, apparent from what their parents were saying, and so she stayed away from the bad things and spent all of her time in the woods.
Not all things go well, of course. It was around the age of eight that her dad left her. No warning, he just wasn’t there one day. There was only a note in his stead, but her mother refused to give her the letter and let her read it. Wesley was mad about it – a total and complete brat to her mom – and if it wasn’t for Garrett distracting her with playtimes, Wes imagines her mother would have been driven crazy. Like most Grays, funnily enough, her dad came back. It was late at night and Wes woke up to a loud slam. She went into the kitchen to find her dad begging and pleading with her mother to take him back, that he made a mistake, but Wes’s mother refused. The fighting and the arguing became so bad that Wes just lost it and ran from the house and into the woods.
How could Wes have known that a werewolf prowled that night. She would have been dead, if her father didn’t go after her and kill the beast. It was too late, of course, Wes had been infected – and became the thing that her parents disliked so much.
It would be too unbelievably stupid to say that Wes’s parents scorned her after she became a werewolf – they were her parents, and they loved her unconditionally. They even stayed together for her during the hard time. But it was different – they treated her like she was made of porcelain and looked at her with these eyes – eyes that Wes didn’t understand. Did they feel sorry for her? Did they resent her? It didn’t matter if they did or not, Wes began to resent herself in a spiral of self-loathing that begun with that one bite and did not stop.
Wes still had some positivity within her – yes, she was a werewolf, but that was only part of the time, right? Optimism is the key, Wes would tell herself over and over again.
Two years later, Garrett comes to spend the night. It was the full moon, but Wes thought it’d be safe if she just stayed away from Garrett and was locked away. Why didn’t Garrett stay inside? If he had, then Wesley wouldn’t have infected him and she wouldn’t hate herself so much. When she woke up the next morning to find out she spread this horrible disease to her best friend and cousin, Wesley knew what she was then: a monster. She deserved to be punished for being who she was, she was a bad person. After that day, Wesley doesn’t like to look into mirrors much and keeps them mostly covered.
Salem Witches’ Institute was the hardest obstacle for Wesley to hurdle when it came to hiding her lycanthropy. However, confidently reported, not a single person other than the other werewolves know about it. Wesley made friends, of course, and hung out with people, had a few flings, but she won’t let herself get close to anyone else – because she doesn’t deserve it. Or that’s what she tells herself.


  

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