The Corven don the black feathers of their deity, in part to honour the Harvester, but also to blend their bodies with the darkness of night, from whence they visit their prey. It is Cree, blood reaper, who most captures the likeness of the Harvester. Her bulky shawl of crow feathers hides much of the arsenal of deadly weapons she carries. A brace of throwing daggers. Twin swords sheathed around her hip, each with ribboned blades and deep blood groves. Most curious of all; the mechanisms that are fastened around her calves to brace the weight of the bladed stirrups around her boots. At the flick of her leg, the blades slide out of their concealment and Cree is suddenly in possession of three steel claws on either foot, which she can move upon with lethal speed, or slash through the air with whipping kicks.
Her tall, pointed hat sticks out on the battlefield. Her long-beaked mask conceals her face and the movements of her eyes, which might betray her intentions. Few, if any, are equal to her dueling skill, mounted or on foot. None are equal to her ruthlessness. She bears the weight of a whole people on her shoulders. Their extinction dangles by a thread before her, so nothing, not even the extinction of another people, can sway her from her quest to keep them alive, day after day.
Her Corven raiders are as quick as flickering firelight shadows. As sharp as the bite of night wind. She is a whirlwind of death for both soldier and commoner alike. Her prey fears her almost as much as her own men do. In the end, it will be the allure of bloodshed that strays her from the path of survival, rather than the threat of any mortal force.
Paddy Dobson
31st March 2022