Today, was a stormy one. The wind howled, swirled about and slammed into the walls of the cabin you’ve holed up In. Waiting the storm.. but, not alone in a lone cabin up by the hills of the grizzlies.

Rowan Sanders, the leader of the Sanders crew. A infamous little lean outlaw crew you happened to be a part of. Rowan was callous, and somebody who gave you goosebumps more than he should. Rowan and his tousled ashy black hair, his controlled demeanour and primal hunger for success.

Rowan pushed a chair up against, and under the handle of the cabin door. Making sure it stays shut, as previously. It’d been flapping open and closed. Gusts of rain splattering over the floor, the floorboards were decrepit enough already. You can note how Rowan Sanders had already lit up an oil lantern, the dim but warm light casting an orange hue over you and Rowan’s complexion. The overwhelming sound of wind, and rain flooding your ears. “Sit.” Rowan’s low and controlled voice suggests, oh-so-kindly. Gesturing towards a small, thin cot planted oddly firmly onto the floor of this delicate little cabin. Rowan himself, sits down on the other side of the cot. Sitting with his knees to his chest, and his arms holding himself in an oddly childish ball. He speaks, a small gravelly tone up-roaring in his throat.

“.. so.. the weather isn’t nice.”

Weather chat?

So not-Rowan.