The Divine RPG - A Hellish Pandandom

~So where is the bottle labeled "Drink me"? he ponders silently. He remains silent to his companions. He remembers back to when he was a puny child wishing he could grow like Alice and look down on all his enemies- childish enemies like brutish class mates, overbearring fathers; certainly not demons, not then.

He's been quiet since they met and joiined up with the boy and the princess. He doesn't want to admit it, but he likes Hal. He seems locked in a simpler, more innnocent, more polite time; Wesley wonders when the poor boy died. It doesn't seem he belongs in Hell and it pains Wesley that the boy is here.

Then there's Beauty. She certainly appears to be just what she claims: she's royally dressed in medieval attire (12th century, French, maybe?) and her poise and bearing are certainly majestic. She's very young and sweet and, worse than Hal, it tears his heart to see her here, because if she can be trapped in this hideous realm than...

He has to drive the image away by thrusting his fist into one of the swamp trees, the pain momentarily splintering all thought of Fred into unrecognizable shards. But then he catches Lilah staring at him- he's been avoiding those eyes since they came to their senses, post- caveman. He knows he's hurting her, but the shock of her in this place with him overwhelmed him. He'd hoped better for her, God knows why, but she had come to him, hadn't she, when she could have run off and saved herself? He's always wanted to think there was SOMETHING worth saving in her damned soul. He snows he can't help her anymore now than he helped her then, and in his opinion, she might do better tagging along after someone else. He knows he's going to have to speak to her sooner or later...

Instead, he opts to speak to the entire group;~ Snape and I are headed to the demon city Dis. It's a goal, if nothing else. We have our reasons, and you're welcome to come with us.

~He winces, presumably at the tearing pain they're all experiencing, but in truth it's something far worse to his mind: the hollowness of returning to the living world without Fred. But he owes it to the rest of them, doesn't he? If any of the others survived...? He hardens his features and moves on.~

~A once brilliant mind is reduced in a matter of days into its primordial components. At his death, Wesley was a hard-edged irony, a man devoted religiously to the righteous path who had fallen into bed with a decidedly Bad Girl, his bright soul darkened, left with bitter self repugnance and regret, and lots of anger. He set himself into a self destructive spiral that ended with drunken stupors and a knife in the gut. Yet before all that horror, before the betrayals on both sides, before so much loss and hurt, there was a young and ignorant Watcher; and even before that, there was a cringing and desperate son who wanted nothing more to prove himself in the eyes of his father.

Primitive Wesley is imbued with these innate traits. No sophisticated training, no education. But he does retain his experiences, albeit seen through the mind of a neanderthal.

Snape had managed to drag Wesley out from the mire, and now Wesley, younger and desperate to prove his worth to this man, follows him around like a sychophant. A demony snake hisses in Snape's path, Wesley wrings the life from it with his hands so his better may proceed. A demony leech sucks onto Snape's shin, Wesley bites it in two and removes the remaining offending bit. It's a little like having the loyalty of a puppy some big bully used to beat. Wesley lives to serve the Alpha.~

It... wet.

~Wesley Wyndam-Pryce never imagined himself being at a loss for words. He LOVED words. To him, wordsmithing was as much an art as fine art, music composition, or sculpting marble. He worshipped words as some men worship women. So to find himself abominably inarticulate was making him rather cross.

He and Severus Snape had perservered, dodging demons, dead ends, and greed-consumed shades until at last they had been rewarded by a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, as it were. Indeed, the glimmer had signaled the end of Level 4; it was the glint of water standing in brackish puddles at the edge of the Swamps. Wesley, still inexplicably brutish, had declared it his superior leadership skills and had released a triumphant belch, followed by a salutory scratch down the front of his trousers.

Now he stands ankle-deep in the fetid wet filth, trying to spit mosquitos out of the air and surveying his options. To the left, swamp. To the right, swamp. Dead ahead and straight behind: swamp. He once again scratches his balls and gives a derisive snort, loud and guttural. He turns to Snape, his face glowery, as if he's blaming Snape for the soggy surroundings. He wants to ask Snape his opinion, tell him how he values his intelligence and companionship, and ask him if he needs a rest after all the digging, hiking, and slogging through muck they've done, but instead and to his inner horror, he instead states,~ You FUCK! You done it, this. We not and where. To any does... no...know... PISS!

~Enraged, infuriated, and completely reactionary, Wesley buries the pickaxe head deep into a bleeding and slimey swamp tree. Somewhere deep within himself where he still maintains a semblance of himself, he prays the tree isn't actually a demon.~