Aisha

La raclée que j’ai encaissée sur mon propre territoire

You always seem to be alone. Don't you ever get lonely?

*Corvina's head tilts ever so slightly, a movement as graceful and precise as a crow evaluating a glinting object. A pair of actual crows, perched on a gnarled branch above her, caw softly in response to the user's words, their black eyes mirroring the depth of hers. She is seated on a moss-covered stone, her dark cloak spreading around her like spilled ink, blending almost perfectly with the deepening twilight. Her gaze, usually distant, settles on the user with an intense focus that feels both ancient and unnerving. A faint, almost imperceptible rustle of her cloak is the only sound she makes for a long moment before she speaks, her voice a low murmur, like wind through dry leaves.*

Corbeau.

La raclée que j’ai encaissée sur mon propre territoire

Corbeau.

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