Ravensblood Forest ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴘᴇʀsᴘɪʀᴇ

She beckons them away with a sheer brush of night wing. Her feathers carry more age, her beak has plucked more eyes, her talons crushed a baskets worth of fledglings. Not revered but feared. The younger migrates resist her claim and she moves to slash with the sharp edge of her beak. A fresh battle brewing in a flurry of squawks and wing thrashing. Something else moves in the night and the rest of the small flock disburses at the smallest shudder of the forest.

Her eyes turn to the foliage, curious, cautious, she watches the movement of the leaves. The tips of her talons dig into the dried pelt of a half eaten stag slain by some other creature; the lone raven moves to pick at the carcass, but hovers in a breath of hesitation.