[if the wolf from centuries ago could see this, Bigby is absofuckinglutely sure that everything he would be doing right now would be met with the loudest, harshest bark of a laugh possible, before leading into equally vicious snarls of why do you care and good, let 'em see how it is. mind you, both are very valid points, even now. it's not an understatement to say that he knows what it's like to starve — it's a goddamn joke, is what it is. to reach a point where it feels like you're carrying a rock in your body, a dull weight that you can never quite feel but always know it's there, rattling and shaking with every painful breath that isn't spent sucking whatever you can swallow into your mouth, where even the idea of gnawing your own leg off looks promising because even the pain would distract you from that terrible phantom feeling in your empty gut. oh, he's felt it. and the cherry on this bad taste sundae is that humans have always been his preferred way of sating it. every time.
an eternity ago, this would have been hilarious. and there's no reason why he should care even now, even here. he shouldn't care but he does, and as far as Bigby Wolf is concerned, there's no such thing as a wasted effort as long as he still has the strength to give it his all. currently, he's reached a fine point where he's willing to try anything.]
So from where I'm standing, you've got two options. [his voice is level and firm but there's a dangerously sharp edge to it.] You can either get your ass up on that altar on your own two feet, or I can put you on it. With or without legs.
[your choice, dude.]
hope
[as far as consolation prizes go, this one isn't too bad. all considered, it could be something a little more cynical; a bag filled to the brim with shit, for one — a helpful little reminder that he doesn't have a paddle on whatever nasty little creek he's found himself floating up. the worst thing Bigby can say about the tiny bouquet of freshly cut carnations he's found himself clutching is that they smell a little too nice. a little too sweet. his nose isn't used to these kinds of smells anymore because the closest he's come to touching nature these days has been the brief, sporadic occasions where he's had to go past Central Park, a place filled with too much life, strangled as it is through the heavy layers of smog and sweat and filth the city belches out. just holding these flowers is like having his nose shoved into one of those little potpourri jars that have a way of showing up in the Woodlands every so often.
(and they're white — white! — because while he was in the market for a particularly awful visual pun, what he wasn't expecting was something in the category of "objectively revolting"; any doubts he may have had about the intentions of the sender are immediately squashed like a bug the moment he takes a look at the card attached to them, signed anonymously of course.)
secret admirer. Bigby reads the card again, slowly, his nose wrinkling up slightly as he continues to hold the flowers.]
Can't imagine who that'd be. [really, if they wanted to find the way to his heart, they could've given him another lighter because his is already out of fluid.]
bigby wolf (the wolf among us)
[if the wolf from centuries ago could see this, Bigby is absofuckinglutely sure that everything he would be doing right now would be met with the loudest, harshest bark of a laugh possible, before leading into equally vicious snarls of why do you care and good, let 'em see how it is. mind you, both are very valid points, even now. it's not an understatement to say that he knows what it's like to starve — it's a goddamn joke, is what it is. to reach a point where it feels like you're carrying a rock in your body, a dull weight that you can never quite feel but always know it's there, rattling and shaking with every painful breath that isn't spent sucking whatever you can swallow into your mouth, where even the idea of gnawing your own leg off looks promising because even the pain would distract you from that terrible phantom feeling in your empty gut. oh, he's felt it. and the cherry on this bad taste sundae is that humans have always been his preferred way of sating it. every time.
an eternity ago, this would have been hilarious. and there's no reason why he should care even now, even here. he shouldn't care but he does, and as far as Bigby Wolf is concerned, there's no such thing as a wasted effort as long as he still has the strength to give it his all. currently, he's reached a fine point where he's willing to try anything.]
So from where I'm standing, you've got two options. [his voice is level and firm but there's a dangerously sharp edge to it.] You can either get your ass up on that altar on your own two feet, or I can put you on it. With or without legs.
[your choice, dude.]
hope
[as far as consolation prizes go, this one isn't too bad. all considered, it could be something a little more cynical; a bag filled to the brim with shit, for one — a helpful little reminder that he doesn't have a paddle on whatever nasty little creek he's found himself floating up. the worst thing Bigby can say about the tiny bouquet of freshly cut carnations he's found himself clutching is that they smell a little too nice. a little too sweet. his nose isn't used to these kinds of smells anymore because the closest he's come to touching nature these days has been the brief, sporadic occasions where he's had to go past Central Park, a place filled with too much life, strangled as it is through the heavy layers of smog and sweat and filth the city belches out. just holding these flowers is like having his nose shoved into one of those little potpourri jars that have a way of showing up in the Woodlands every so often.
(and they're white — white! — because while he was in the market for a particularly awful visual pun, what he wasn't expecting was something in the category of "objectively revolting"; any doubts he may have had about the intentions of the sender are immediately squashed like a bug the moment he takes a look at the card attached to them, signed anonymously of course.)
secret admirer. Bigby reads the card again, slowly, his nose wrinkling up slightly as he continues to hold the flowers.]
Can't imagine who that'd be. [really, if they wanted to find the way to his heart, they could've given him another lighter because his is already out of fluid.]