is currently employed and on the verge of starting classes at a community college. not only are they quite busy with these things, but they are also a freelance artist seeking commissions. please be patient and understand that roleplaying is merely a hobby.
Most find the Wolf to be inherently dumb, appallingly stupid, but appearances are known to deceive time and time again. Wisdom hides behind his bleeding eyes. Neither a scientist nor a saint, Bigby Wolf waltzed across the graying lines of morality: lawful neutral.
“Makes ya wonder if he’s got this place bugged, what with his ‘see all’ gimmick.”
Such is the cry of a jaded, disillusioned fellow. Rather than his voice brimming with scorn, he utters a scuff which is accompanied by a rueful shake of his head. The smile upon his lips makes his jaw ache from the pain of maintaining such a pathetic ruse.
He, too, fell into a pit of vipers. Neither seemed content to bathe in their misery, cloaked by a profound sense of duty. A fist caressed his chapped lips, his grin chipping away.
“—-Like a house on fire.”
His words were intentionally vague, completely aware that foundation collapsed from rot over time. He needn’t say. One look told him that she already knew.
“Oh, don’t I know it. Makes me wonder why I agreed in the first place. ‘Course I already know the answer. I knew she could never absolve me of sin. She’s not redemption n’ I know you’re not too fond’a her. This is my undoin’.”
And it was passive, the way he went about his demise, sinking lower in his wooden throne. God surely laughed at him now.
The only thing that will restore his faith is a little, tender Lamb.
Aluxury in the eyes of those whom signed off for more than agreed upon. Intelligence had been a reoccurring characteristic to her person and virtually everyone whom ever associated with her, or even let alone been in her presence, had understood this… But from interminable inspection upon folk with distinctive tiers in both traditional and modern savvy, it had been apparent as to why the most productive borne tribulations.
“Certain areas of importance.” Rosalind affirms, “I have high doubt he would heed the tongue of drunken citizens. They pose as no threat, only irritation.”
It undoubtedly brought them momentary solace, to express their minds so frankly. God knew that even in her very residence, there erratically lurked either The Prophet or one of his various, overly devoted aids. There had been very little sanctuaries here, including the one they had been occupying…
So here they sat on saloon stools, riddled in contrition and grievance, alike to many of the bar’s visitors before them.
“With no apparent doors.” At least, there hadn’t been for the Lutece’s as of yet. Only in the distant future would an ever so blatant solution to this crisis come about. Lamentably for this tame predator of sorts, the physicist had not been all to knowing of his fate. Unlike she, his value to Comstock had been tenuous– much rather an irritant. While the fellow may of appeared to easily manage his partner’s frivolous spending and deeds, this would not been one which could go overlooked.
Confirmation engraved in her expression, a moment of stillness passes over them. “Why had you? She must not have offered much else in return– save for all the atonement Columbia’s maternal figure had been willing to give.”
“I’m no fool, but I reckon my moves say otherwise.”
Chess was a game that Mr. Wolf had yet to perfect. Clumsy were his movements, pawns haphazardly clicking across the board. The clumsiness matched his crude language, rough around the edges, akin to a stone that refused to plish and roll with the tide. Instead, he pushed against the waves — fought against the crash and roll.
Gruff and tough, he was as genuine as they came. A sincerity lingered in his words as well as the haggard way he carried himself. He dragged his body along, but would never hesitate to help a poor, unfortunate soul in need.
Though Rosalind Lutece was not poor, he viewed her as one of the unfortunates who had the misery (yes, misery) of interacting with the Prophet. He was a cold, cruel man with sharp teeth and sin upon his serpentine tongue.
“Ya built this city up. I’d hate to see Babylon fall.”
Honesty. Pure, unadulterated honesty.
A tumultuous sigh rocked his body. He thought about burning the file with his lighter, strike the flint and watch it burn. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, a puppy-eyed look flicked towards the scientist. Loyalty killed a man, left him jaded and broken.
“Can’t say the same for his wife. I’ll try to protect her. Hard when ya love someone so much that ya can’t see him for all his fucked up, little flaws, I guess.”
They all marched onward to their self-destruction, a path glittering gold.
This could be said for genuinely any soul– even herself, whom had done as much as seemingly possible for these sour circumstances… Having empowered a FALSE PROPHET, influencing the desperate by virtue of technologies and the incomprehensible art of physics that only she seemed to have been blessed with. Not simply this but bringing uproar to both the Comstock house and the universe’s principals. Whatever this wolf may have executed, nothing could be as professedly terrible.
To this, she merely droops her head, not in agreement but in acknowledgement.
Bigby ought not scourge himself with remorse due to her association with vile serpents. This woman had been proud, built of a substance much like marble and others had an awfully hard time fracturing even her disposition on account of cruel indicationsand predicaments burgeoning any harmony that was promised. It had been of her own accord that this cooperation had grown so sturdy.
“What I had created was a foundation. It has long since been constructed over.” Despite having been so familiar with the city that she could precisely lay out that of a map, it had not been completely hers to take ownership for. It hadn’t been until there was mention of the ever endearing Magdalena that Lutece ever so slowly came to face him.
“Yes– hard.” Repetitive, as though this alone could clearly demonstrate her dislike. “Concerning yourself with Lady Comstock though, practically ensures misfortune.”
Her lilt soothes him, washing over him like the deep blue sea, but lacks the drowning sensation of being pulled under by high tide. Though he may not be a lost child, Mother is God — and his was such a sweet woman, both patient and admirable. His respect for women ran as deep as can be.
“This is gonna turn into a goddamn bloodbath. I’ve gotta stop it now.”
Much to his dismay, it’s already too late. He’s dug his grave, made his bed, and now he has to lay down in it, but his wicked soul refuses to keep. A nervous hand traces the nape of his neck, probing bone strained tightly against thin, vulnerable flesh.
Thumb and forefinger caress his pulsating temple, obscuring his weary gaze. There’s no rest for the wicked, no song for the choir. He’s equal parts jaded and grizzled. The truth tastes peculiar on the tip of his tongue, revealed before an inquiring mind.
“I’ve been so blind.”
He’s fallen for the Magdalena’s schemes, her carefully calculated ploy now her undoing. The Prophet saw all.
“He’s gonna target you next, doc.”
The Wolf tells her to run, but he knows within his tar black soul that she will not.
Qualities as this had always been savored, particularly by dames whom had been accustomed to cruel speech and repudiation. From Columbia’s creator to the maternal figure that’s preserved by deception, it was customary, unfortunately. Though, Lutece relished in pushing these boundaries and shattering them completely… Even if she’d neglected corruption under her own nose and did nothing to raise question or opposition.
“Do what you will, sir. I can only imagine your involvement would lessen the hemorrhage." These had more so been words of consolation rather than anything else… As unfortunate as that had been, Columbia has been enraged with camouflaged bloodshed and no one could change that.
Falsehood left a bitter taste on one’s tongue.
What had been left to prosecute remained questionable. Not only for both the Lutece’s but as well as this Wolf of Columbia. Perhaps he’d been tenacious, but even then, hazards would not wither.
”Better sightless than comprehensible.“
An appendage lifted is condemning eradication. Endangering the individual she held most dear would never be worth such sacrifices... It appeared, the woman constructed of marble was visibly fractured and her partner had been the chisel.
Discernible brows complicate a freckled visage. This woman had known strain was inevitable. By what degree though, she could not measure. "As of now, I’m still of use. I have but more to accomplish and understand – such things require that which only Comstock is willing to offer. Your concern is fully appreciated but I will manage my own fate.”
Send me a ☠ to hear what my muse would say to your muse’s grave.
Their first meeting plays through his mind like a broken record: in a pub with dim lighting, amber liquid sloshing within a crystalline goblet. A game of cat and mouse, a clumsy hand obscuring a file of her livelihood — her namesake, captured moments reflected through photographs and chicken scratch.
Torn asunder by faith & loyalty, he found an unlikely friend. She spoke of science — so radiant was she when she spoke of such, a natural glow that bestowed her with a h a l o. Like all halos, hers would inevitably choke her out.
His head hurts, his vision swims. He drinks a little more, but he can’t forget her. She had shown him the way (after a game of chess), showed the broken and ruined man that he could, indeed, make a path for himself. To follow his own life and seek out the atonement he sought. A Prophet would never forgive him. Nor a Holy Mother, a Lamb, a Scientist. For goodness’ sake, he had to forgive himself.
Bottle in hand, he stumbles and sways in the street. He hears shrieks from afar, a wailing siren, and gunfire whispering tales of treason. Lifting his head up, he’s a bloody mess. Suit tattered, tie askew, chain dangling out of his pocket.
And his eyes flash gold in the moonlight, a petty illusion, to befit the spectacle in the sky — a statue that should’ve been the stern prophet, but transformed into a familiar face. He holds his bottle up to the bronze image of Rosalind Lutece.
“Y’were my friend n’ I hope you’d think the same of me.”
He’s lost again with no guiding hand to feed from.
“I’d like to think we’d meet again, but you never believed in that hogwash.”
—A cough.
“Here’s to nothin’. To somethin’. Maybe we’ll meet again.”
Calloused fingers rubbed at a swollen lid, tinged red from sleepless nights and the guilt that plagued his memory. Contrary to nagging suspicion, the Wolf didn’t accept the job for the Holy Mother’s fair features nor did he necessarily approve of poking around, toying with lives (though his had been royally messed up from the start). He accepted, because he couldn’t refuse. Neither silver nor gold tempted him, but the mere aspect of helping someone provided a temporary relief from the permanent ache that afflicted his chest.
His hand slides away from the manilla file, photographs and hastily handwritten notes littering the small folder. An invitation to take a gander, but not quite.
“The city’s been goin’ to hell for awhile now.”
He knows; he’s witnessed the discord firsthand. Shanty Town weaves a siren’s song about broken dreams and aspirations shattered by poverty — of hope lost and never found.
Lifting his weary head, his lips purse. He had been promised so much and received so little; he wasn’t absolved of his sins, unable to let go. He always blamed himself, on a proverbial self-destructive warpath.
“Y’don’t have to do that. It’s wrong. All’a this—” A loose gesture to the file. “—is wrong.”
A disoriented shake of his head.
“I’m lookin’, but I’m not seein’ much.”
And he’s as lost as a man is in rapture.
Submission of services had been wonted in this ‘haven’ and to diverge from this would result in retaliation (no matter the degree, it had been at the hands of the most powerful in the city). Comprehensible that he would act in such a matter if it meant his well being had been vulnerable. Unlike the wolf though, Lutece only succumbed to The Prophet’s intolerable requests… Anything from the Lady and she would withdraw herself completely. But again, the fellow hadn’t been accounted for whenever the Comstock’s had been side by side, the visual alone had been quite enough to estimate their current standing toward one another.
Blue hues fall toward the sloppily concealed script, no urge particularly taken in overlooking the document since she’d been somewhat aware of the components. Suspecting that it had been but more false accusations and mentions of distressing deeds done. No, Rosalind would not skim the paperwork, instead she would share a word with the fellow whom had it spread along the bar counter.
“No reason to deny the ever evident.” Columbia’s leading scientist, the very heaven’s mother, mind you, had been skeptical of it’s harmony.
Comforting a wolf… What has become of the physicist?
“At times, we are unable to make just decisions. Though it is by our hand, we are handled like that of a puppet by the administrator, so that there is a destination to be reached. Simply because we act on what is required of us doesn’t signify that the fault is our matter. Under 'matriarchies’, it is quite difficult to reach self fulfillment. Assuredly now since you are providing your services to Comstock.”
His job is a slow suicide, a burn that hungrily gnaws on his marrow, whittling away his ribcage to devour his still-beating heart. With a grimace, Mr. Wolf grips his wrist. He cannot bear to lock eyes with the anomaly before him. Once, he expected Columbia to be salvation, hope renewed, an opportunity to heal his damaged soul. Instead, he witnessed what he vowed to escape on sodom below: corruption.
Standing rigid, she resembles a statue rendered immobile — lifeless aside from the flutter of her lashes. A circular, silver tray beholds a glass with an amber liquid sloshing about. Ice clinks together, chiming to produce an unholy rhythm. It grates on his ears.
There is always a choice, as surely as there is a lighthouse.
Jaw sliding to and fro, lips part as though he’s deliberately waiting for guidance. She provides none. Hand wafting through the air, he hesitates sharply. He feels like Alice — which will make him small and which will make him larger? A pill and a drink for every cause.
But why, oh why, can he not flit in between a superposition of states? Neither one nor the other, but a perfect merging of the two — much like the scientist who bears a name, a legacy, but never a child.
Civil would best describe the calm presence near his shoulder blade. She wasn’t a phantom for him to cower in fear from, but an urban legend brought to life — her legacy rivaled old fables that children were supposed to learn a meager lesson from.
“There’s gonna be hell for this.”
With a throaty growl for a voice, his simple comment could have easily been mistaken as a threat even though it was not. He cared little for poetry and theatre; all he paid witnessed to was a plethora of falsehoods destined to entertain. Shadows crept beneath his haunted gaze, a trembling hand rubbing his defined jawline.
The picturesque display of justice suited him not. Many assumed, at a glance, that his occupation was that of a carpenter or a blacksmith — a petty job with no room for growth. Looks, as always, proved to be deceitful in this supposed utopia.
Confliction parted his lips. Though he spent his life in the shadows, the Wolf of Columbia yearned for honesty (the best and only policy). Pointed elbow hit the polished counter with a modest thud. His hand obscured his grizzled features and he wondered if, perhaps, this could all be a dream.
“You know, don’t you?”
A vague question to behold, but one must be careful in open waters. One false move could lead to the tumbling of that house of cards so preciously stacked. Devoted wife and Prophet tore him apart, a perpetual tug on both arms, but he had far more to worry about.
Troubled was the expression carved onto his face, muscles spasming out of spite.
“I’ve dug myself a grave six feet deep in the middle of a floatin’ city.”
Bitter was the smile to touch his lips and he hadn’t the faintest clue why he decided to confess to the woman he was supposed to gather information on. His gut told him that Lady Comstock hadn’t painted the whole picture — nor was the Prophet wholly innocent.
Inevitably, but whom for? Time had yet to determine– it had been that poor Bigby fell at the knees for a guise: the martyr’s cries, but it was only in the fellow’s credulous nature. Though he appeared scruffy, one who often guzzled down bottles and may have induced quarrels at pubs, he’d meant well… If not in general, at least towards a woman who had been conventionally attractive and more than likely offered a meager fortune.
Having passed up the opportunity, regret would come to blanket him. Might have mouths to feed… Debts to pay.
What the tangible spectre returned had only been forthright acknowledgement in visage that signified there was an awareness, only by very small degree however. Rosalind knew not what he’d planned, but only that the The Magdalene had been a participant and thus, no good would come of such a suspicious scheme. What she sought had been malice, her prime target being the only woman whom Columbia regarded as much as she. Fueling her came poisoned words and punishment from the man she instructed to cherish, love, and follow, no matter the consequences.
"Enough to determine that only discord would arise.“
Guilt struck him and so ordinarily too. But it was no matter, Madam Lutece had been a patient woman. Here she would offer an ear, perhaps even an invisible hand. "I am more than willing to lower a ladder in aid, but I am quite sure you are aware as to why I’m hesitant to do so, sir.” Appearing sincere hadn’t accounted for genuine reliability, this she had come to learn by the Prophet himself.
What he’d been capable is something the physicist didn’t care to evaluate.
An appendage sat along the rim of the counter, as if reading to take a bar stool or giving him but a final word of implied caution. Comstock and Lutece may have cared nothing for one another, but to render the lady ineffective would be stripping the intellect that came with managing the haven.
