The fog, the snow, the eerie silence, the lack of discernible night and day -- it's all starting to get to Logan. He's lived in places like this before, briefly. Alaska, Russia, Iceland for a while. He knows what it's like. There's no reason for it to bug him this much, except here, there's no way out. No plane to take him back to New York. Not even a blue sky, just suffocating greyness filled with the looming shadows of buildings and trees.

It gets to him.

So, he falls back on bad habits. He withdraws, he drinks. And he hunts.

At first he sticks to the ruins, skulking his way through half-familiar trees, checking in on Ruth and Ellie and the others at a distance. Ignoring the voices that whisper at him from the mist. He hunts the spiders and the bird-dogs and the strange plant cats, though they start to disappear as the fog draws in.

Then he goes back to the core and starts hunting the shadows. He figures maybe they're a piece of the thing that's keeping them here; maybe he can find answers. It's an easy enough lie that he can make himself believe it.

Maybe you find him in the middle of a fight, or maybe he's just stalking in the snow. Either way, watch yourself. The Wolverine isn't in a good mood.

It happens eventually. The shadows are too numerous and too immune to Logan's claws. They keep coming back. They start hunting him in turn. And his healing factor can't keep up, ground away by privation and the world's magic.

Maybe, in some way, he welcomes it.

He goes down, snarling and snapping, under a pile of shadows in the ruins of a building and emerges as a different creature.

At first he hardly notices the difference, but when it happens, it happens fast. For a man who lives and dies by his senses, when they go dull it's like living deep within the fog that now shrouds the ruins. But the shadow parasite in his mind keeps him quiet, telling him it's nothing to worry about, he just needs to find somewhere calm. So he seeks it out, a quiet place to match the growing quiet in his mind. Black knives bleed out from his knuckles, staining the air. He resumes his hunt, though he doesn't know why, or what for.

This time, you won'd find him fighting. Just standing, or wandering through the trees, muttering to himself or occasionally keening quietly like a wounded animal.

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