#c.wolf

@sherffwolf​

It wasn’t as if Théo had ever aspired to owning such an... establishment, as The Lucky Pawn. Oh, no. Hardly. But the opportunity had knocked - in the form of the place’s former owner, an odious Fable who’d enjoyed stopping by the Farm to brag, gamble with whoever could hold cards, and, fortunately, drink himself reckless. What harm could come, the fellow might as well have said; he was only betting with dumb animals, after all. 

As it turned out, some animals were dumber than others, and a few rounds of Papa Bear’s moonshine had done the Pawn’s owner no favors. Puss, though? He was never one to let a favor slip through his paws. And so he’d sunk his claws into his winnings (and the loser’s face, when the man’s whinging started to get a touch too belligerent for Puss’s liking) and made his way to Fabletown. Not for the first time. Not by far. He’d been doing his damnedest to leave the Farm behind since the day they dropped him there - they, the so-called Mayor’s office, those Fables who had the cash-clout and presumptuousness to attempt to run this little pantomime show of a society. Though, of course, he’d never been brought before old Cole and the rest. A straying cat? They had people for that sort of thing, the dirty work, here as in the Homelands. Most of all, they had the wolf. That one. Of legends big and bad. Their sheriff.

His only customer, at present.

The shop’s many benefits included a distinct lack of holiday rush, so Théo’s ears had perked at the jangle of the bell, and he’d peered out of the back room, roused from his dusting, to find Wolf strolling along past the cases. Putain. Thankfully, his glamour had no hackles to raise. So he smoothed his hair - already impeccable, but a gentle pet could be soothing - and drew a pleasant smile on, then slunk forth. “Ah, Sheriff,” he began, so very politely. Keeping the counter between them. “How might I be of assistance, this lovely day?”