The forest was quiet and damp from the morning dew, the night's rain leaving no traces of the night's violence. Logan was tired, his claws shining bright from the first rays of the day's sunlight. He'd taken out a number of Chimera Soldiers, leaving nothing of import behind. He used to feel remorse, but the war had pulled him down. He was uncharacteristically tired, his muscles sore, worn even. He let of a huff, more of a growl really, before walking to the nearby stream to wash the red off his hands.

He glances back at his makeshift camp, his little captive all sat by the fire, their Chimera armor tossed to the side revealing drab soldier clothing. It was hard to tell if they were a low class grunt, or some high ranking officer. That Chimera Empire wasn't known for it's fancy armor.

"Come on, quit glarin'." Logan grumbles when he comes back, hands clean. Claws clean. "You're the one who attacked me, not the other way around," Wolverine sighs, sitting beside them. Times like these he wishes he wasn't a dryad. He wished for wings to simply fly away and avoid the slaughter like the other fae got to. He didn't know why he'd stopped himself when it came to them, this enemy. While it was easy to tell himself it was to question them, he knew that wasn't entirely the case. Maybe it was how lost they'd looked. Or how their own hand seemed to hesitate on their sword.