Stoic, headstrong and always looking for a fight

All he’d really wanted was to get away for a while– from everyone, from everything. But no matter where he went, his troubles always seemed a step ahead of him. In every town, on every lonely stretch of road, in every sprawl of ostensibly untamed wilderness, it was something. An old friend in need of help. An old adversary with a score to settle. An innocent person in danger, who would live or die by the grace of Logan’s intervention, or lack thereof.

It should be difficult to find anything in this neck of the woods, given the amount of snow covering the place and how the mercury struggled to rise above freezing temperatures. And yet snouts persist in smelling the white drifts, finding scent trails that wouldn't otherwise be visible to the naked eye. To the wolves, this tangle of trees, rocks and covered grasses was home.

Whilst Logan himself would always remain a visitor here, no matter how many times he tries to tell himself otherwise.

Lagging behind the pack at a safe distance, three-strong and all grey-coated, he grunts indignantly at his fellow mutant's misnaming attempt. Whether it was deliberate or accidental remained to be seen, but as it were, it was nothing more than a minor blip that failed to stop the Canadian's careful advance, burly arms swiping left and right occasionally to move aside loose snow from his path.

"'Cuz I trust their noses more'n any man's, myself included." To extend such a compliment wasn't a stretch, given that he's been around such animals with enough frequency to gauge how his own enhanced senses compare. That still didn't prevent him from trying however, where, stopping in his tracks, he knelt against a patch of compacted snow, fingers lancing into the white slush in search of something.

sea water.

being loved by you is like diving into the ocean. it’s a limitless, deep feeling. it’s scary but soothing at the same time. it burns on open wounds, but it’s what makes them heal too. it’s a taste that lingers on your lips, so unexpectedly good. you crave deep, intellectual connection. maybe you’re not good with words, expressing your feelings might not come easily for you. it's your actions and attention that let them know, they feel seen and heard. your primary love language is probably acts of service, small little things, like untangling your lover’s jewelry without them asking, that when added up speak volumes. like the impression that the sea gives with its vastness, you also might seem distant, inaccessible; but that’s just the way you are, a little cold, right? your lover probably got scared at the beginning, it had to adapt to it by taking little steps at the time before confidently leaving the shore behind. you crave peace and stillness, because you know how an agitated sea can be frightening even for the most experienced sailors. it looks so quiet but your love can get loud, like the roaring sea. you hate fighting. you’re always scared the waves might get too big, too tall to overcome; that your lover might run away, unable to contain and hold you. you’re not asking to be tamed; just to be trusted, to be stayed with even when the waters rise. you wish nothing but hold them tight and be their lullaby, to rock them as if they were asleep on a floating mattress, gently carried by the waves, drifting slowly towards the center of your heart.

tagged by - @yoursdndispatcher [cheers again!]

the caution

You arrive quietly, like a breath taken before speaking. You choose where to stand. Where to sit. Who to look at. Your presence isn’t loud but it’s deliberate, weighted with attention. People often miss you at first. That’s fine. You’re not here to be consumed immediately. You are gathering information, reading undercurrents, noticing what isn’t being said. When you do engage, it’s precise. Thoughtful. Real. And by then, you’ve already seen everything. Colours: Slate, mist grey, muted sage Scene: Sitting near a window, watching reflections more than faces, storing details you’ll remember later.

tagged by: @krypptonian

Blood.

Do you hear the screams of them, as you take and take and take? You never stop taking, right? Because the world took so much from you. It’s fair, right? Even as you dig your hands into their chest and pull, trying to rip apart something that has hurt you. Even as they grasp weakly at your wrists, sobbing and pleading, saying that they’re sorry. It must have hurt. Hurt much more than this for you to do it. Their chest heaves and you hold their heart in your hands. It looks the same as yours. Isn’t that interesting?

tagged by - @yoursdndispatcher! [cheers!]

Thrown into the mix, the deafening clamour of fighting breaking out sent Logan diving for cover, seeking a second to think just as the bullets came whizzing in his direction. Letting out a snarl, he rose in a half-crouch, head lifting just enough above the line of cover to lay eyes on what kind of mess he'd gotten caught up in.

In return, what's glimpsed is the familiar figure of a certain wallcrawler, leaping and jumping around a mass of moving bodies in the centre of a warehouse. Each man packing packing a substantial amount of firepower that, at least from his position, suggested a rare possibility; they were trying to defend something.

"What the hell--" A rapid report of bullets cuts short his complaint, as hands fly upwards to shield his face. Something that, as his hands gripped the side of the cover he'd been hiding behind, wore thin his patience, motivating him enough to vault out of cover.

And directly into the line of fire.

Hand curled around a cooled bottle of water, a tap on his shoulder prompts the Canadian to turn around, all side burns and blue eyes. At a glance, he had the bearing of a man that spent his life outdoors, with his thick, unkempt tangle of jet black hair. and weathered features. And yet, despite the rough texture of his tone, he appeared to express an interest in her plight.

"Sorry, darlin', could ya repeat your question?" Feigning difficulty in hearing her, plausible given that the café was packed with customers, desiring their morning brew, the truth of the matter was that he was stalling for time. Especially given that he could not readily match her face to a name, or speculate on what her intentions were, beyond tracking down a lost item.

"Do ya not recognise the place?" He'd chosen this tavern for a reason, remembering its location with crystal clear clarity. Which, given how often his memories and mind had been messed with and altered, was an achievement in itself. But Logan declined to share such a detail, as this moment wasn't meant for him.

"Marauders used t' gather here. S'pose it was after your time, though." Dressed for trouble, he'd entered what remained of the rundown bar ahead of the other mutant, lock having met the tip of an adamantium claw as they forced their way inside. Although listed in the city's records as being abandoned, a quick sniff of the air brought back the lingering scent of sweat and burnt tobacco, suggesting recent occupation. Along with...

"Cordite. Someone's got to be hauling guns through here." A contact had given him a lead, though it didn't bode well. "Rumour has it that a small group of wannabe Reavers took th' place over in the years since. Don't much like either group... sorry, Gumbo." Turning back to Remy to apologise, Logan eventually faced forward again, running a gloved hand over the main bar, checking for marks left in the dust.