[hider=Wesley Craven]

[b]Birth Name[/b]: Wesley Craven

[b]Other Names[/b]: “Wes” 

[b]Gender[/b]: Male

[b]Age[/b]: 32

[b]Rank/Title/Social Class[/b]: Explorer/Adventurer

[b]Appearance[/b]: 

[img]http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51%2B3Jr6NQnL._SY445_.jpg[/img]

	The most noticeable feature about Wesley, is his sharply hooked nose, which gives him a hawkish appearance, from where sky-blue eyes gaze at the world under a pair of thick, blonde brows. He is extremely attractive amongst the women, which should not be surprising by any means, as Wesley’s face is ideologically proportioned for a man in Victorian times, as some would say that he could resemble any of the renowned Renaissance sculptures from reputable sculptors. His strong, round cheek bones, and a square chin with a cleft, give him an intimidating presence. His lips are long, and not-so-much on the thin side, and when he smiles, a neat row of white teeth is displayed, with a large smile to match. 

	When first meeting Wesley Craven, one is quick to notice his manner of dress. With a black leather duster, a white button-down top, with curiously printed vests that range in fabric from simple corduroy, to French silk, or a brocade of varying colors. Some would almost say that he is the influence for the [i]dandy[/i] fashion trend in the later years. However, the most striking feature yet to Wesley Craven, is that of his height. He is but a tall man, standing well over 6’4, and some in society would even claim that the very way he walks, and carries himself, is that of an American cowboy from the western territories such as the New Mexico territory.  From years in the sun under the desert sky, Wesley is heavily tanned, yet even more notable is his blonde hair, seeming golden to even almost the shade of corn at times. About his hips, there always remain two pistol holsters, in which he carries his dual pistols, in case of needed defence. 

[b]Personality[/b]:

	Upon first impression, most people in Europe would consider Wesley Craven to be a dull character, lacking in spirit, or any apparent motivation, which is to the contrary. It is in Wesley’s natural behavior to remain quiet in front of those he has not met, but once he has observed the others in his presence, he is more than willingly to oblige himself to any conversation he deems fitting. Those that do not know Wesley very well would call him an eccentric man, with his head always in the clouds. Yet to those that know him well, and would dare to call him a friend, Wesley is ever more honest in his behavior, and is not afraid to let loose his animalistic spirit. Being raised in the western territory of America, has turned him much into a ruffian in appearance, though he acts dignified in nature. Others would attest to him being an honest, loyal man, one that kept his word no matter the conviction. 

	After one puts aside the image of an American from the west, there is but a man that has been wounded, and harbors a secret so deep, that he wanders the world in perpetual loneliness, seeking an answer to the question he does not know.

[b]Psychic Talent[/b]: Blood Reading

	An unusual psychic talent that allows Wesley Craven to see how the spilled blood, be it in a chalice, upon the floorboards, even old blood stains, whisper at him frantically in his mind, forcing him to mentally relive the deaths of the victims. Even if someone was in no immediate danger, Wes could hear their very thoughts. He thoroughly believes he is a cursed man, cursed by the Sioux native, for taking his gold. An answer which he seeks under the roof of House Ianus.

[b]Skills[/b]:

Mining

Construction

Farming/Gardening/Homesteading

Hunting/Fishing

[b]Weapons/Fighting[/b]: 

	When engaged in combat, Wes is more likely to use his surroundings to his advantage first before pulling out his dual pistols, meaning he's more likely to throw a chair at someone, before firing his gun; as he doesn't like wasting bullets. He’s got a quick aim, something he’s been working on for several years during his travel.

	Wes carries around in his pistol holsters, two Colt M1878's. 
[b]History[/b]:

	Born in [i]Santa Fe[/i], New Mexico, Wesley Craven was raised by his mother and father on the outskirts of town. They led a minuscule life, as Wesley, and his two brothers struggled to help their family make a decent harvest. Edward, Wesley’s father, was a pious man, and believed deeply in the Catholic faith. The family of five would often visit the monastery in the quaint adobe town, travelling in their wagon, pulled by an old, grey, nag horse. Irrigating the land properly for farming proved difficult in the sandy soil, especially when it came to growing vegetables that grew underground, such as potatoes, and carrots. However, they quickly learned that tomatoes, beets, and even corn, grew vibrantly under the expansive blue skies. With what little prairie grass that grew, they were able to keep a steer or two for a year before slaughter. 

	Due to the distance of how far the Craven’s lived from Santa Fe, they were unable to seek immediate help when a band of outlaws razed their homestead. Wesley’s two brothers, James, and Benjamin were shot in the field harvesting their crops late one summer. For his parent’s Elizabeth and Edward livelihood, they perished in their adobe, straw-thatched home when the outlaws set their home ablaze. Wesley never knew the answer to why the outlaws attacked his family, and killed them without mercy, for he had been in town at the monastery, receiving lessons in writing, and arithmetic. He returned home, a mere boy of fourteen at the time, atop his black colt, and arrived to the site of his family’s homestead, and the surrounding fields ablaze with thick, heavy black smoke drifting across the horizon. Forever, would the image be burned into his mind, as he would never forget the day he lost his family.

	Wesley returned to the town, and to his relief, the sheriff met him on the way in, as he too had seen the rising black smoke on the horizon, that then resembled looming, black towers. The sheriff and his deputy, along with some other volunteers tried to extinguish the fires in hopes of finding someone alive, but their dismay, they found the entire family dead. Not wishing the boy to fall into a stroke of bad luck, the sheriff left him in the hands of the catholic monks, where he would remain until he turned eighteen.

	When his eighteenth birthday came and went, Wesley found a pain in his heart to leave behind the beautiful city of Santa Fe, and to explore the world. He wanted so desperately to run away from his life, to forget all of the misfortune that he had suffered. It was there, that he made for the railcars along the railways that would bear him passage outside of New Mexico, that would carry him as far north as Oregon. By 1878, a young, Wesley Craven headed for the Black Hills in South Dakota to try his luck at the last attempt to discover gold.

	Life as a gold miner proved to be tough, as he had to stand in the frigid, running waters of the rivers, sifting through multitudes of dirt, and pebbles, hoping to catch a glint of the gold he so feverishly dreamt of at night. To Wes, as he now preferred to call himself, the only way he could think of getting rich was finding gold, as the temptation to instant riches lured him. He had heard of the gold rush from his parents when he was younger, of how his father’s brother, Leland, ventured to seek his fortune at the Eldorado gold rush, in the New Mexico territory (now in present day Nevada). From the tales his father told him of his beloved Uncle, that never seemed to visit, Edward failed to tell his son why his uncle never came. Within his first year of panning for gold in the river, he fell ill with pneumonia, and died the following winter. Wes never learned of his uncle’s fate, and believes to this day that his uncle Leland, is a miner, long since now by old age, that struck it rich in the by-gone years. This did 
not stop the young, and fearless Wes, as luck soon came his way. 

	One thing that bothered Wes was the mistreatment, and the abuse of the Sioux, upon which the gold deposits were found. Wes knew that by law, that white people were forbidden from entering the protected lands that belonged to the Native Americans. Under the cover of darkness, with a full moon to light his way, Wes slipped away from camp to pan the waters, hoping to see a shiny glint in the dish of his pan. What Wes failed to realize was that he was being followed, not by the miners, but by a Sioux scout, curious to see what Wes was up to.

	He had travelled far up river, away from camp, as he yearned to discover untouched water. When the hour came to be three in the morning, did Wes entered the river. For an uninterrupted hour, Wes dipped his metal pan into the river’s water, scooping up sediment, and spreading the dirt around, analyzing every rock and pebble for the sole desire of discovering gold. A twig snapping caught his attention, and before him, on the opposite river bank of where he stood, Wes saw a Sioux man watching him with a careful, and stoic gaze. In his hand, he held a bow, though he did not draw it against the American. 

[i]”What have you come for?”[/i] Asked the native man.

	Shocked, Wes struggled to find words to answer him. He was not afraid by any means, but more intrigued.

[i]”I came looking for gold.”[/i]

[i]”Then it will be your demise.”[/i]

	Before Wes could answer, the native man disappeared into the cover of the forest along the river, yet when he looked down into his pan, his mouth dropped open. Before him, were three, dirt-covered nuggets of gold, each the size of the ball of his hands. Surprised at his luck, as Wes believed then, he hurried back to camp, and packed his bags. Long before the sun rose, Wes had left South Dakota behind, and travelled south-east to Kansas, where he boarded a steam-boat to the state of Louisiana. There, Wesley disappeared into the world, and headed for the East Indies. The gold he discovered equated to be more than twelve-thousand US dollars, apiece, at the time. With his new riches, he headed straight to Sri Lanka, which was under the control of the British Empire at the time. 

	He was introduced to the ideology of Buddhism, which fundamentally changed his spiritual thinking in life. Wes stayed at a Buddhist monastery where a surge in the revival of the religion proved to be most encouraging. He even shaved his head, and ate nothing more than a simple diet of nuts, beans, and fruit, absent of meat.

	Wes journeyed on to China, where he soon fell prey to the infamous opium dens that lurked in the underground world of the Imperial City. As a stranger in a foreign land, Wes almost found himself robbed in his sleep of the rest of his money he had. Thankfully, or more rather, unfortunately, Wes killed the assailant that tried to rob him with a dagger slipped between his ribs. Fearing the power of Chinese officials, Wes fled to Prague, where he has lived for the past three years. As of late, with his opium withdrawals causing alarming nightmares, Wes has come to the society in search of peace of mind, and an attempt to discover an even more alarming secret to a mystery that has long bothered him.

	After coming to Prague, Wes has developed a paranoia, as he now suffers from hallucinations. Some would say it’s because of the cocaine, others would claim it to be the alcoholism. Whatever it is, Wes certainly doesn’t want to see it. In tormenting dreams, Wes sees a repetitive vision of a massacre, where the blood rains down in buckets all around him, covering him head-to-toe in the crimson liquid. Even more concerning is his recent ability to [i]”read blood.”[/i] It feels more like a curse than anything else to Wes, as he struggles to conceal his ability to distinguish between real-life and the dream world.

[b]Random[/b]:
Wes likes drinking alcohol, and prefers lagers over wine.

[/hider]