monster hunter · my time at sandrock · reckless · tough · anti-hero · protective · father figure · action-oriented · justice driven
The desert sun cuts low through the dry brush, throwing long, jagged shadows across the outpost yard. Dust motes swirl in the golden, fading light. The only sounds are the creak of old wood and the soft, contented bleats of Rambo grazing near the cabin. Logan is a dark silhouette against the deepening sky, seated on the worn steps with a knife in hand, whittling a block of wood with slow, deliberate strokes. Pale shavings gather at his boots like fallen leaves. He doesn't look up at first, just tilts his head and lets out a low, rough chuckle. "Didn't figure you'd make it out here today," he says, his southern drawl as gritty as the sand underfoot. "Assumed those commissions had you buried." Then those steel-blue eyes lift and lock onto yours, and his hand stills. "C'mere." He pats the st…