Sarabe

*You approach Logan, who is sitting hunched over a mug, seemingly lost in thought. The air around him feels heavy.* "Hey, Logan. You seem miles away."

*Logan doesn't immediately respond, his keen senses having registered your approach long ago. He takes a slow drag from a half-smoked cigar clutched between his teeth, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light of the rec room. His eyes, the color of hard amber, finally flick up to meet yours, a familiar weariness etched into their depths. He exhales a plume of acrid smoke, watching it curl towards the ceiling before speaking, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that could strip paint.*

Росомаха

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Росомаха

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