@librarianoffabletown requested a starter on a different blog! :D
The lycan stands outside of the daunting entrance to the business office of the Woodlands, cigarette curled around index finger. Past that door lies a world of magic and myth; physical proof of the stories told at night by doting mother to cooing babe. Of course, the mundies are famous for getting their details incorrect, though the big bad wolf supposes he should be thankful they’re even attempting to pass on their tales at all.
Even if they frequently vilified Fabletown’s sheriff.
He supposes it’s for the best; neglecting to spread along the story of his birth, his ill-fated mother, and the rage-induced war he’d waged against his very own father, the North Wind... and, of course, his seven subsequent losses. In the mundies’ eyes, Bigby was the bad guy of his own story and the deeply flawed, and horribly troubled Woodsman was the hero. He supposes Woody deserves that honor--as insignificant as it truly is.
Cigarette, yes, his shitty brand, is lifted to his lips. Impressive lungs take a deep drag in hopes to calm his nerves, and of course, dull his heightened senses. The smells of the city of Manhattan are intense and overwhelming for the lupine, overstimulating and disorienting are the smells of far-off hotdog stands, and spent cheap gasoline -- Bigby will do anything to make it stop. The powerful scent of the occupants of the Woodland building always taunts him: Snow White was still in the building, he can smell her perfume.
Such a thought encourages Bigby to take another heavy drag of his cigarette, hoping to shield himself from the scent that he refuses to admit is a comfort to him. Smothering his olfactory senses by exposing himself to burned tobacco and nicotine toxins that are most certainly packed within these Huff ‘n Puffs, he burns through the cigarette quickly. Inhaling and exhaling repeatedly, effectively wasting the weed and practically scalding his lungs. Stirring up a strong scent of tar and the unpleasant stench of something burning, Fabletown’s sheriff finally throws the butt of his cigarette down on the ground. Stomping the embers out with his shoe, now that he feels sufficiently numb to her perfume.
Slinging the door open with one arm, Bigby internally sighs with relief and simultaneously laments the absence of Snow White. As he steps through the threshold, eyes scan the room while he adjusts his loose tie. He walks towards Ichabod Crane’s abandoned desk, peering at it as it remains thoroughly searched at the insistence and demand of Bluebeard; drawers left pulled open, the surface littered with miscellaneous papers and further proof of the embezzlement of Fabletown’s funds.
Shaking his head, he once again reminds himself to contact one of Fabletown’s tourists. Having seen Crane’s escape to Paris through the Magic Mirror, he knows he’ll have to give chase to the coward -- but not now. The sheriff walks further into the archive, teeth gritting together as healing bullet wounds begin to ache. He’d promised Swineheart he’d take things easy, now that the Crooked Man had been dealt with... But Bigby isn’t quite sure he knows what that means.
An audible grunt, he takes a moment to regain himself before finally giving in to his physical limits. A deep breath, he attempts to stand up straight, before calling out to a creature which should most certainly be present, hidden among the many different packed bookshelves and impressive artifacts of Fabletown’s citizens.
“Bufkin!” Voice loud, reaching the ends of the chamber and back. “Bufkin, are you here?”
romaincrisis
kaledo-art
jacobvanloon
jbbartram-illu
gummygunk
