Logan came from the swamps. Its search-and-destroy instinct was instilled deep within him. Everything that emerged from there, whether they be born there or happened to stumble across it, was affected by it. From the creatures that crawled from its murky depths, to the misquotes that sucked you dry, nothing escaped its grasp. Even the gnarled and bent trees fought for dominance and a place in the muddy earth.
Logan, however, was not only birthed in the swamp; he was raised by it. He was its offspring. It was the guiding hand in his way of life.
He recognized it as his mentor and instructor, but not as his guardian. He knew the swamp was merciless. It would swallow him up if given the chance. It showed no love and no pity. Like everything in it, it fed on the weak.
Most people, who had probably never been to the swamps, thought them to be dead and rotten. Logan knew differently. He knew the swamps to be a damp and breathing entity. A predator.
Its humid breath passed along the muck and the neck of the trees. Its needle-like touch pressed upon everything. Its lidless eye saw everything and its guttural, croaking voice never quieted.
It encompassed everything within, suffocating all. It drew you in and never let you out. It was like a giant boa constrictor, but far less giving. It never cut off your breathing completely. Your death was never quick and painless. It left enough oxygen to devour you alive, conscious, and terrified.
And in the middle of it all, amongst the paradox of the swamps—a living place of death—was Logan. He knew this place to be a soggy Hell on Earth. He also knew this place to be his beginning.