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snikt! indie headcanon-based logan, known as the wolverine, from marvel. carrd. rules. about. verses.

HUGH JACKMAN as LOGAN HOWLETT/WOLVERINE X-Men Origins: Wolverine (2009) dir. Gavin Hood

@feuerwizard asked: there’s no such thing as safe magic . 𝐹𝐼𝐿𝐿𝑂𝑅𝑌 ⅋ 𝐅𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 sentence starters (accepting)

Fire crackles. The truth is laid bare. Logan is a lycanthrope. It sprawls plainly like a strewn-open book, the letters too big and the pages ink-blotted in a language only Caleb, blessed by either a certain scholarly fortitude or a sad, learned suspicion, understands.

“Nothing safe about tadpoles, either.” Firewood snaps. “...Or nautiloids.” Logan’s voice is long and low. “...Or whatever-the-hell else we’ve had to put up with.”

Logan: almost appraising. Silence hangs between them like a shroud, and he never looks away. “I’m saying can you— or can’t you.”

He’d asked if he could make him something. A tincture. A powder. A spell.

Anything to keep it asleep.

#feuerwizard #( v: dnd. )#( wolvroarine: asks. )#ty for sending in! idk how strictly we want to adhere to dnd lore here w a spell fixing it #or if its more complicated than that but :) i was leaning more towards the latter.

@toherdemise asked: wow , nice trick . i’m sure you’re a hit at parties . 𝐹𝐼𝐿𝐿𝑂𝑅𝑌 ⅋ 𝐅𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 sentence starters (accepting)

His claws retract. Logan cocks a brow.

It was an ambush. A pungent amalgamation of malcontent cultists, fanatical and marmalade-pulpy. One of them, a woman with a Roman nose and who smelled sharply of cumin, wanted to rip them apart. Seize their tadpoles, she’d hissed, drawing a knife. Ascend!

Logan stuck claws into submental, lifting men up gurgling, leaky, and limp. Eventually, the fight ended.

He pulls a talisman from the neck of a body. The Cult of the Absolute.

“So much for being worshiped, princess,” he quips back. Weren’t they supposed to obey and revere them?

#toherdemise #( v: dnd. )#( wolvroarine: asks. )#i was thinking ''youre a hit at parties''?? sure. literally. but saved the dry quip for the end lol #anyway maybe they were scrounging around? answers. supplies. whatever. and were attacked by cultists #except they wanted to kill + take their tadpoles away for themselves rather than be subordinates??#o also put this in dnd/bg3 verse since u prob kno that better?

bhaalborn

@wolvroarine said: " i'm not gonna like this, am i?"

" HAH! of course not, why would you? even i don't particularly enjoy this, but lucky for both of us- i'm not very squeamish! " ulysses arm vanishes inside the crack in the wall with a wet squelch, tendrils of something pink, organic, and decidedly ALIEN clinging to ulysses' now-trapped extremity. they cling to the darkness of their sleeve, pulsating with the intent to draw them in. there are flashes of light behind the dragonborn's lids, a lull, then a vision.

heir. TYRANT. d̴̞͈̚a̶͇̪͈̼͖͑̑̀͜͠r̴̼̫͇̠̗͍͎̄̎̌̊̚̚͜k̴̖̗̟͚͎̙̓̊̈́̔͑̈̈́̈́ ̶̛̥͕̀̌́̽ư̶͍̔̒͊̉͘ř̵̯̩̼͍͕̙̲͈̇̔̃g̶̩̤͊e̶̛̺̗̦̬̳̹̯̱͂̀

a blink and ulysses and back to themselves, but the pull of the wall is STRONGER. the bones in their arm creak and moan, threatening to splinter, and they uselessly flap their free hand in logan's direction. with a voice of increasing volume they say, " alright! okay! lesson learned. don't stick your hands in places they don't- ouch- belong. i'd like to be extricated from this arm-eating death trap now, please! "

lost meme, ALWAYS ACCEPTING

wolvroarine

“Now hold on-”

Ulysses already sticks their arm through.

Sticky, squelching. It’s almost instantaneous, a niggling feeling in the far corner of his brain like a needle in the dark. It feels vaguely like déjà vu. Then, like unity. Ulysses thrashes. Ulysses screams.

Logan, snapped high into awareness, throws overlarge hands onto their shoulders and yanks. His claws come out. He stabs through the crack.

A pop. High, whining. They nearly tumble backwards against the scaffolding. First, the bloodbath with Z’rell and Kethric. Now: this.

“Hey, new kid,” he warns, urgent and husky. “Keep your hands to yourself. Unless you’re looking to die so the mind flayers don’t get you, in which case, you’re doing a bang-up job.” There’s squelching behind the wall. Logan’s face is tacky with dried blood, and he’s still gripping. Slowly, he lets go. “No more. You hear me?”

#bhaalborn #( v: dnd. )#ty for this!!#i actually had to youtube the crack in the wall bc i never encountered this in my playthrough ijdkf #ulysses cease and desist!! givin everyone a heart attack #but read up that ulysses is recruitable in the same area we find mizora? so i figured theyre the new kid on the block so to speak : )?

@avernusfuries asked: hey mr wolverine, show me how to do the cool moves you got i can have claws made

“What’s the matter, hotshot? Axe not cutting it for you?”

Clever.

His mouth tugs into what she might presume to be a smart but imperceptible smile. Karlach is a walking juxtaposition, he thinks. A barbarian made of literal fire and a distinct ferocity, but also, perhaps, a woman more inclined to Eskimo kisses and candy-colored friendship bracelets. Contradictions.

Call it ironic. It’s something like ten at night judging by where the stars are in the sky, and he’d been chopping wood. Now, he pours ale in a cup.

“Looks like you’re doing just fine without me.”

#avernusfuries #( v: dnd. )#( wolvroarine: asks. )#she already kinda got claws. go iron reaver soul stealer it ms cliffgate :)

for d&d/bg3 verse, thinking of your muse hearing logan muttering and stirring heavily in his sleep (nightmares). also possibly encountering him somewhere in the Wilderness, maybe fending off werewolf hunters (possibly pinned for the murder of someone; i'm thinking a senior officer in a military-like structure) or some other malevolent group. maybe members of the church of bhaal?

anyway, in the latter thought soup, your muse could find him like this??

#( wolvroarine: ooc. )#my thoughts bubble around like a little stew #also ty everyone for following!#those are arrows in his back btw with rope at the end of them trying to stop/slow him down/capture

snikt! indie headcanon-based logan, known as the wolverine, of marvel. blog. carrd. rules. about. verses.

#( wolvroarine: pr. )#do you guys want to know how long i sat working on this (no)

recitedemise

Kitty?! Tara, a dutiful guardian — or perhaps just a surly tressym, to be honest — eyes him in the way of daggers. Whoops. Gale frowns at her glower, shooing her ineffectively like some diffident boy. Apparently, it seems even storm-touched wizards haven't power over kittens. Taking back the book, whatever smile he scourge up is but half apologetic.

"I'm inclined to say that you are," he answers, approachable with his good-natured elbowing, "but had you stumbled upon whatever wisdom it is you'd hoped to find—" whatever it is "—I am more than willing to allow bygones be bygones."

Still, one must wonder what it is he seeks. Logan is curious, as genuine of a mystery as he is a nerve. Hm... Soaked in the far starlight, Gale unconsciously studies him as their campfire flickers. "Not that this is meant to be of any affront to you, of course, but what with all your...spirited vigor, I hadn't thought esoteric tomes to be in your purview. Taking stock of your academic appetites, I'd have thought you a scholar. Care to share your quandaries?"

wolvroarine

Let bygones be bygones. Logan arches a brow. “—Real nice of you.”

The tressym stalks off. Does it know? Animals with their preternatural senses— It borders on the nonsensical like tea leaves and haruspicy. Horoscopes. Gale hadn’t known he’d materialized here in order to crinkle his nose at some dusty, old tome on lycanthropy or amnesia, the truth not something he cares to divulge.

Spirited vigor.

“What. Judging a book by its cover, professor?” Logan quips, dry and droll and, really, he doesn’t care. “Got the whole Sundries here and nothing on how to fix us,” he says. “But look at that. Maybe you could whip us up some porridge.”

He holds up a thin leather-bound book like a playing card. The cover reads Flavors Across Faerûn, and Logan sets it down.

#recitedemise #( v: dnd. )

@grief-worn asked: “that's not a real answer.” 𝐹𝐼𝐿𝐿𝑂𝑅𝑌 ⅋ 𝐅𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 sentence starters (accepting)

“—Sorry to disappoint.”

Logan turns back, tying the last knot to his tent.

Who are you? I’m nobody. It’s a non-answer, a bloated book filled to the brim with empty, blank pages. It’s the kind of answer that births one of two polarized reactions. The first: an inscrutable curiosity to prod, Logan resistant like a child refusing bedtime. The second: the instinct to keep a wide berth because there is no trust to be had.

Shadowheart—a strange name. Too ominous to be given by loving parents—may be suspicious by nature. He breathes, long, hard, and relenting.

“Ladies first,” he says.

#griefworn #( wolvroarine: asks. )#( v: dnd. )#ty for sending! thinking of both of em not rmring who they are and their past... scratching my chin.#turning the tables around at the end. lead by example miss shadow :)c

@rottine asked: “you're a much better liar than i expected you to be.” 𝐹𝐼𝐿𝐿𝑂𝑅𝑌 ⅋ 𝐅𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 sentence starters (accepting)

“Yeah? And how’s that?”

Logan forces himself up on the autopsy slab. Everything happened too quickly to succinctly form into words. He’d ran. He was chased and shot. Something runs hot through his core like gold brought to its gurgling boiling point. He’s healing slower than normal.

This death doctor is a dog in the way she smells bullshit. Logan’s grimace is more like a snarl.

“I told you I’d be fine.” Before he’d collapsed over her floor. He peers down his hole-punched chest, crudely stitched together. “...And I am.”

#rottine #( wolvroarine: asks. )#( v: main. )#this is like a combination of both you sent tbh :)

@recitedemise asked: “this isn't just some lark to me, just so you know.” 𝐹𝐼𝐿𝐿𝑂𝑅𝑌 ⅋ 𝐅𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 sentence starters (accepting)

He smells Gale before he sees him.

“Returning something,” he says, rumbling and off-hand. “Thought I was overdue.” Logan is wry and smells profusely of sap.

The tome is well-worn, the pages perhaps dog-eared and the spine crinkled from repeated perusal. The wizard has a portable library on him. Theses on cellular decay and magical transfusions. Congenital lycanthropy. Nothing, invariably, on an herbal remedy to tadpoles.

The tressym nearby stares holes into him, appraising. Logan’s mouth is straight.

“Good kitty.”

#recitedemise #( wolvroarine: asks. )#( v: dnd. )#wasnt actually returning a book. prob was looking around camp

millerbenny-moved

#looks like you’ve made a friend there, logan

#( wolvroarine: p. )

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