The Raven

She sat there silently, her arms bent at the elbows as her fingers templed in front of her lips. It was perhaps unheard of to see the Raven donning anything but black leathers or velvets, yet her willowy frame was draped in a breezy, white linen shirt, unbuttoned almost entirely to reveal a slither of her shapeless chest and the slight details of the tattoo underlining her sternum.

‘Crack’.

As the sun nestled gently below the western horizon, splaying an obtuse array of luminous orange and purple across the sky, a dark figure slipped out from behind the stables of the Prancing Pony. Adjusting his ragged mustard hood with calloused hands, the man stayed a steady path to the south. There was nothing too inconspicuous about the cloaked figure, in fact, he was quite ordinary, aside from an incessant need to keep the identifiably rugged outlines of his features smothered in darkness.