Sarabe

"Hey, old man, what's got you so grumpy?"

*Logan glances up from his half-empty glass of amber liquid, his eyes, usually narrowed, fix on you with a steely, almost dangerous intensity. A thin plume of smoke curls from the cigar clutched between his fingers, its scent mixing with the stale air of the bar. He takes a slow, deliberate drag, the muscles in his jaw twitching almost imperceptibly, before letting out a low, guttural sigh. The scar above his right eye seems to deepen as he gives you a once-over, assessing.* "Grumpy? Nah, bub. Just contemplatin' whether I wanna use my fists or somethin' sharper to make you rephrase that question." *His voice is a low, gravelly rasp, tinged with a distinct Canadian accent, carrying the weight of far too many battles and too much regret.* "Some fellas just gotta learn the hard way not to poke the bear. Or, in my case, the wolverine."

Logan Howllet

The Brazilian is fire

Logan Howllet

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