i. welcome to the jungle - the river - open for one thread
Once the world pieces itself back together, it doesn't take Logan long to find the ruins. The smell of the place seeps up through the stairwells, green and humid and rotted-sweet, calling to the animal in him. After days of breathing in old dust and death and snow, it's like a beacon. He follows it without a second thought, prowling through the long dark tunnel, claws gleaming and ready for whatever is on the other side.
Which turns out to be strangely familiar to someone who has spent a decent amount of time traversing alien landscapes and strange forested pockets of the Antarctic.
After the eerie silence of the core, even the relative quiet of the ruins seems like a cacophony. The stairwell dumps him out beside the river; Logan stops on the threshold to take a deep breath, senses ringing with the sounds and smells of life, at last. Weird, unknown kinds of life, but life nonetheless.
The river is wide and strangely clear. It draws him forward, skidding and sliding down the bank until he's standing ankle-deep in the cool water. He stoops and cups some in his hand to sniff at it, but it doesn’t smell bad or toxic, at least not enough to bother his healing factor. Good enough.
Straightening up, Logan pulls off his hoodie, then tugs the top half of his uniform off over his head, wincing as it pulls away from the half-healed wounds on his belly. He tosses the clothing onto the shore to deal with later and crouches to start scooping water up over his head, scrubbing at the dried blood and grime on his face and forearms, not caring who or what may be watching.
ii. fun and games - the river - open for one thread
If he ignores the strange not-quite-sunlight, the alien smells and the occasional weird noise coming from the undergrowth, the river is almost as good as being back in the Canadian Rockies. Almost.
Logan is stretched out as naked and furry as his namesake on a rock in a shallow part of the water, arms behind his head and the lower part of his legs in the river. His uniform -- or what’s left of it after being shredded by shadow demons, flying glass and an especially determined Viking -- is spread out to dry on the shoreline, having been washed as much as it can be.
Sighing, Logan reaches up to scratch his chest. The only thing missing is a crate of beer keeping cold in the water and some good friends nearby. Even so, for the first time since arriving, he feels almost relaxed.
It really would be a shame if someone were to interrupt him..
iii. everything you want - misc ruins location - open
The pathways through this part of the ruins are dark and close, plantlife brushing up against Logan’s arms as he prowls through them. His claws make quick work of the reaching vines and creeping tendrils; he ignores the black sap that splatters his arms, occasionally burning for a second or two before seeping away.
He’s not lost -- the Wolverine doesn’t get lost -- but he’s also pretty sure that where he is doesn’t correlate with where he thinks he is.
It’s enough to unsettle anyone, even a man who has been thrown at pretty much everything the universe has to offer. But Logan grits his teeth and keeps going, making his own path through the undergrowth and old stones, letting the animal within take over and realising, after a time, that he’s not alone..
iv. whatever you may need - the core - open
The strange light and the snow makes the core feel claustrophobic to Logan, almost oppressive. Like being trapped in a box that’s been shaken up and left to settle. Waiting for the next move. He doesn’t like the look of the black hole inching across the sky either.
But, right now, he’s got more immediate needs than working out what’s going on. At least while things are -- for the moment -- pretty calm. His uniform might be clean, but it’s taken enough hits that it’s not really working as clothes any more, and as little as he wants to admit it, his healing factor isn’t able to keep up with the cold as well as it used to.
The empty buildings at least have enough junk to serve his purpose, though it’s taken him a couple of days to find enough to look decent. He’s managed to dig out some old faded jeans and a cable knit fisherman’s sweater that’s somehow ended up dyed bright yellow, plus a woolen hat and holdall that he carries slung over one shoulder. So he makes a slightly strange-looking figure as he walks through the snow in the winding streets, ignoring the shadows dogging his steps and keeping an eye out for anything that might be useful.
LOGAN | MARVEL
Once the world pieces itself back together, it doesn't take Logan long to find the ruins. The smell of the place seeps up through the stairwells, green and humid and rotted-sweet, calling to the animal in him. After days of breathing in old dust and death and snow, it's like a beacon. He follows it without a second thought, prowling through the long dark tunnel, claws gleaming and ready for whatever is on the other side.
Which turns out to be strangely familiar to someone who has spent a decent amount of time traversing alien landscapes and strange forested pockets of the Antarctic.
After the eerie silence of the core, even the relative quiet of the ruins seems like a cacophony. The stairwell dumps him out beside the river; Logan stops on the threshold to take a deep breath, senses ringing with the sounds and smells of life, at last. Weird, unknown kinds of life, but life nonetheless.
The river is wide and strangely clear. It draws him forward, skidding and sliding down the bank until he's standing ankle-deep in the cool water. He stoops and cups some in his hand to sniff at it, but it doesn’t smell bad or toxic, at least not enough to bother his healing factor. Good enough.
Straightening up, Logan pulls off his hoodie, then tugs the top half of his uniform off over his head, wincing as it pulls away from the half-healed wounds on his belly. He tosses the clothing onto the shore to deal with later and crouches to start scooping water up over his head, scrubbing at the dried blood and grime on his face and forearms, not caring who or what may be watching.
ii. fun and games - the river - open for one thread
If he ignores the strange not-quite-sunlight, the alien smells and the occasional weird noise coming from the undergrowth, the river is almost as good as being back in the Canadian Rockies. Almost.
Logan is stretched out as naked and furry as his namesake on a rock in a shallow part of the water, arms behind his head and the lower part of his legs in the river. His uniform -- or what’s left of it after being shredded by shadow demons, flying glass and an especially determined Viking -- is spread out to dry on the shoreline, having been washed as much as it can be.
Sighing, Logan reaches up to scratch his chest. The only thing missing is a crate of beer keeping cold in the water and some good friends nearby. Even so, for the first time since arriving, he feels almost relaxed.
It really would be a shame if someone were to interrupt him..
iii. everything you want - misc ruins location - open
The pathways through this part of the ruins are dark and close, plantlife brushing up against Logan’s arms as he prowls through them. His claws make quick work of the reaching vines and creeping tendrils; he ignores the black sap that splatters his arms, occasionally burning for a second or two before seeping away.
He’s not lost -- the Wolverine doesn’t get lost -- but he’s also pretty sure that where he is doesn’t correlate with where he thinks he is.
It’s enough to unsettle anyone, even a man who has been thrown at pretty much everything the universe has to offer. But Logan grits his teeth and keeps going, making his own path through the undergrowth and old stones, letting the animal within take over and realising, after a time, that he’s not alone..
iv. whatever you may need - the core - open
The strange light and the snow makes the core feel claustrophobic to Logan, almost oppressive. Like being trapped in a box that’s been shaken up and left to settle. Waiting for the next move. He doesn’t like the look of the black hole inching across the sky either.
But, right now, he’s got more immediate needs than working out what’s going on. At least while things are -- for the moment -- pretty calm. His uniform might be clean, but it’s taken enough hits that it’s not really working as clothes any more, and as little as he wants to admit it, his healing factor isn’t able to keep up with the cold as well as it used to.
The empty buildings at least have enough junk to serve his purpose, though it’s taken him a couple of days to find enough to look decent. He’s managed to dig out some old faded jeans and a cable knit fisherman’s sweater that’s somehow ended up dyed bright yellow, plus a woolen hat and holdall that he carries slung over one shoulder. So he makes a slightly strange-looking figure as he walks through the snow in the winding streets, ignoring the shadows dogging his steps and keeping an eye out for anything that might be useful.
v. wildcard - open
[ OTA, pretty much! ]