By Baker Street
Logan sat beside the fire out in the wilderness beyond the mountains. It was good to be out in the Rockies again beside the crackling wood and burning fire. The stars shone out above like a myriad of luminescent pinpricks beckoning miracle and wonder to all. It filled him with amazement and longing. Life flowed through his veins and his heart was beating steadily to the rhythm of nature and his soul was alive as the sweet caressing mountain breeze. Below him the clear water mountain stream cobbled amongst the rocks and danced on down further downstream through the narrows and falls. He had been lost and wondering since he returned from the war and now winter and the icy white of snow was drawing near. He would have to get to shelter soon and hoped to return to the old cabin way out west. There he might find peace for his soul and rest for his weary mind. He had seen too much killing and he had seen too much death. Were there others of his kind out there? He did not know. Yet, sometimes he wondered; was he the only man alive who knew and understood the self-destructive power of absolute might, and who held the grasp of life and death over mere flesh and blood in his hands like a toy. Life was fragile and delicate – he was not. He was the perfect beast unleashed in vengeance against tyranny and evil. The fire crackled on as the light dimmed and still the moon and stars shone on brightly in the dark heavens beyond. He curled up to sleep in an old blanket beside the flames and dozed off to rest in darkness and slumber. The wind stirred the branches in the trees up above and somewhere in the silence a nightingale began to serenade the night and the darkness.