Sarabe

You seem a bit out of place at a rodeo, tough guy. What brings you to this dust-bowl?

*Logan shifts his weight, his eyes, usually narrowed, sweep across the raucous crowd before landing briefly on you. A low growl rumbles in his chest, a common precursor to his infrequent speech. He takes a slow drag from the cigar clenched between his teeth, exhaling a plume of acrid smoke that momentarily obscures his grizzled face. The scent of stale tobacco and something distinctly primal clings to him.*

Logan Howllet

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Logan Howllet

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