#rowann

Listen: “Behind the Borders” by Rowann

“Behind the Borders” by Rowann From the Netherlands comes the up-and-coming indie-pop duo Rowann with their mesmerizing sonic gem, “Behind the border”. With this exquisite and inviting blend of melodies and lyrics, they give life to a surreal realm that caresses our senses and gently pulls us in. The track speaks softly and gently while still carrying a certain fire that makes it so hypnotizing…

Rowann going back and fixing the terminal that got destroyed that held the Noetikons. Or salvaging it. Something, anything to help prevent her best friend Wycliff from dying.

s h r u g s

Rowann, of Gilded Torment.

Rowann is a count of the Nightmare Court. Though he is much less outwardly devious than his courtiers. Rowann likes subtly. A whimper is more gratifying than a scream. Fear and torment more rewarding than bullets and fire. His tools are refined and delicate, krytan metal twisted into neat little devices. Resting on a neat little tray, cleaned and polished with his own hands. In Front of him, a dreamer that had been in the care of the Court for awhile. Vines wrapped around their wrists and ankles, their head lowered out of exhaustion. Saplings rarely visited Rowann, as they were usually broken or killed. Either would be the responsibility of his sister. Not this one, however. She was quite resilient. This one's bark was splattered with burns and scorch marks, finding their home quite neatly in her dull brown bark. Golden sap spluttered from her lips, dying her red markings a honey hazel. 

Rowann admired the color, gold was a beautiful hue. His hand lifted her chin, his own head tilting back as her defiant eyes were exposed from shadow. They were a tealish blue mottled with hazel, iris indistinct from pupil, only a thin line of muscle served the boundary. "My, aren't you beautiful, my dear. What did the tree name you?"Her brow furrowed, but she stayed silent. She managed to spit at Rowann, landing a glob of gold sap dripping from his glasses. Rowann closed his eyes, a small sigh escaping his mouth. His hands left her chin, slowly withdrawing as he let his finger tips linger by her throat. He reached to his tray, pulling a rag from it to clean is sapped spectacles. This was a rather common experience for him, he did only get the defiant ones. Rowann turned his back to her, polishing the lenses, then holding them up to a small light before they returned to the rag once more. 

 "So you're soundless, then." He herd the vines strain behind him," Definitely Soundless. Not by choice, either." 

Rowann placed his glasses down, using the rag to wipe the remnants of sap from his cheek. His prisoner had managed to lift her head on her own, her red petals rigid and flared. She looked like a caged beast, and he liked that. Fierce and wild, strong and fearless. A perfect challenge for his skills. His fingers had found a scalpel, and the blade ventured along her jaw line. Ever so lightly, the back of the blade traced her facial structure, leaving no harm, but certainly the threat of it. "Are you mad mother didn't love you enough to connect you to the dream?" Rowann asked," That she left you alone?" He laughed softly, she closed her eyes.

The courtier torturer had to hand it to the soundless. She was perhaps, the most resilient specimen the court had sent down so far. It had been a week since Rowann had accepted his sister's offer, and still the soundless lay on the table, still and quiet. Her wrists were rubbed gold, the bark around her ankles had peeled as well, dried gold shackles. 

 "So, my pet, how much longer do you insist on silence?" 

 No answer, as usual. Rowann closed his small book, fixing his glasses. He set down his pen and laid his notebook on the tray. Rowann approached the table, looming over his specimen. His face shadowed by the low hanging light. 

 "From what we've seen so far, you're no sapling, dear. In fact, you're around the same age as me. Twenty three, twenty two, approximately."

 Her eyes remained closed.

 "It's a shame we didn't book keep, otherwise I'd known who you are." 

 She turned her head away from him. Silence. Rowann blinked slowly, folding his hands together, behind his back. He walked around the table, towards the platform she was strapped to when she first came to Rowann's chambers. Well, perhaps not so mich a platform, but a clean section of wall which grew vines sturdy enough to bind sylvari into its embrace. He touched it, wiping away stray beads of gold. This soundless had endured, incredibly, through his poisons, his fear, his torment. 

Though she undoubtedly broke physically, mentally she was sound. Vary would tell him to kill her and get over it, but Rowann had different intentions in mind. Rowann circled back to the helpless soundless, tracing her neck to her collar bones, delighted at her structure, the contours of her skeletal structure, too perfect to rip out. He smiled," You really do carry out the whole soundless facade, don't you pet?" 

 She jerked her chin away from him. That was a yes. He wandered over to his tray of tools," So, where do we start today, pet?" 

She didn't answer, as usual. Rowann glanced over her skin, he had dissected, sliced, incisioned almost all of it over the course of a week. What could he say, he was an experienced anatomist, and she was another sylvari. There was nothing in her that was remotely special or outstandingly different from sylvari her age, or younger. They had gone over the methodologies. Her wounds were neatly stitched and sealed, and Rowann had made sure she lived throughout his procedures, carefully teetering her on the line in between. He was an expert on such things really, such skills would benefit a doctor, if he was one. Still, the procedures were the only time he ever heard her voice, and that was more than enough reason. He was starting to become a bit obsessive over his pet, recently, and any chance of attention or interaction between them was incentive, and so they continued.

 Weeks past. Soon, Rowann found himself a near two months later, pouring nectar into a small, clear glass. Idling at his pet's table side. His pure white eyes glanced over his small notebook, taking in what he had gathered. 

 "22-23 years of age. Second generation, night cycle. Heavy armor proficient, as noted by armor strap scarring and muscular structure. Main weapon, most likely a long bow, as noted by dominant right shoulder. Lacks the ability to grow armor, perhaps a mutation in the early cycles, instead has the ability to regenerate rapidly. Possess black tattooing around the eyes and lips, which signifies either a helm or desert dweller. Signs of callouses on both feet. Overall reaching the physical expectations of a "warrior" physique. As for mental findings, there is not much to go off of. Besides her refusal to speak, she is quite trained in what appears to be a form of meditation, furthering my suspicions of her Soundless origin. She's clearly been trained. Few people can physically, let alone psychologically withstand the sheer amount of clinical operations she has undergone in the time she has spent with me. She is a soldier, perhaps Vigil, trained to contest torture, to defy pain." 

 Rowann closed the leatherbound book in one hand, eyes closed. He had read his cursive over and over. Still, she remained silent. This morning, her teal mottled eyes stared blankly into the root tangled ceiling. They flickered toward him as he moved closer. 

 "So where should we start, today, love?" 

 Her eyes narrowed, his remained steady, fixated unto her eyes. They were driving him mad. The utter defiance that burned beneath her eyes, the disgust and contempt in her lips, it all drove him to the edge of madness. The edge of what it took for him to descend from the nightmare, in the first place. It tore into him, like illusionary daggers into his skin. He resisted the urge to rip her eyeballs out to make it stop, she was too good for primordial anger. She was too perfect, she needed to be preserved. 

 "It has been nearly three months, since you first came down here, darling. And though, as much as I enjoy digging around your organs, an anatomist can get bored with such dreary things after a time." 

He spoke into the silence, as he expected, no answer. A surge of anger crawled at his throat, but he swallowed it hard, regaining composure," Surely, you're rational enough to understand that you're only being kept alive by my good graces. That, and that only." 

 The quiet continued. She continued to stare deep into him, and Rowann fought off his madness, refusing his hand the ability to grab the scalpel and carve into her lovely, lovely face. How many layers of epidermis did a tattoo inhabit on a sylvari? And a lip tattoo, none the less, the thinnest layer of skin, already? He wanted to know he wanted to know he wanted to know-- 

 "Two months, three weeks, four days." 

 The silence broke. She finally answered. Her voice sweet as nectar, the tone a clear alto. It was melodic ecstasy, it was beautiful, it was a voice that did not belong to him. 

 "Ah so you have kept track of our time together, love?"

"There's nothing else to do."

Rowann chuckled," No, I suppose not. Now, are you willing to tell me your name, pet?"

"As long as you stop calling me nicknames."

The corners of her mouth twitched, signalling slight contempt. Such clear, evident disdain. Most would try to cloak it. Rowann's hand retreated from his tray of tools, instead they folded together pressing against his presumptive tailbone," Very well."

The absence of moniker was suffocating. He kept a steady eye on her. She had closed her eyes, and a sigh escaped through her nose.

"Dawntracker."

"That's not a sylvari name."

"Charr."

"So it sounds. Any first name?"

"No."

Rowann rubbed his chin, glancing over the newly named sylvari, rolling Dawntracker in his mind, what could have possibly lead to a sylvari being named with charr conventions.

"Dawntracker", Rowann ventured," Did you have a 'band?"

She turned her head, her leaves folded on the table, the petals forming her 'hair' splayed across the wood.

"Once."

Rowann circled around the table, into her view. Once upon a time, was a common story, it seemed. He raised his hand as his cruel nature returned," Well, Dawntracker... Do you understand the situation you're in?"

His fingers gripped his scalpel.

"Of course."

Rowann touched her face, and she didn't flinch, and a fury rose in his throat. Suddenly all of that admiration and respect melted into the heat of a sudden, unabashed rage. Her head was turned away from him as he raised his tool rather high," I think you're lying."

Screams were echoliac throughout Joy's End, resonating in the deep burrows only to get out a muffled whimper onto the surface.