genuinely just staring at the wall thinking about the absolute, crushing weight of the air around raven even when she’s just standing there. it’s the way she’s made of these deep spills of ink and crushed velvet but she reflects light like she’s carved from cold obsidian—she feels so tactile and yet so terrifyingly distant. like that over-the-shoulder look isn’t a greeting, it’s a threat, and she looks genuinely exhausted by the effort of keeping the void from leaking out of her skin. i’m specifically thinking about how her magic isn’t just some fun power, it's this living, violent pressure she has to pilot every single second just to maintain a human shape. if she looks at you with that half-lidded expression you don't even apologize you just accept that your soul belongs to the night now. anyway i'm completely fine i am being so normal about her i promise.










