RAVRYN

Born beneath a sky that never clears, the Ravryn came from ash, not egg. The winds of Grimspire are sharp as blades, and the only lullaby they knew was the scream of warhorns in the distance. No kingdom claimed them, no forest sheltered them. They were scavengers, born into a graveyard—raised among broken swords, burnt banners, and the silence of the dead.

Where others forged allegiance, the Ravryn forged wit. Where others prayed for mercy, the Ravryn learned how to lie, steal, vanish, and strike first.

They say when a Ravryn chick hatches, it already has a dagger tucked beneath its wing.

The Ravryn swear no oaths—only contracts.

Eldrin. Netherin. Meeschling. Draetherin. They’ve served them all. And betrayed them all.
Not out of malice, but necessity. In a land where mercy gets you killed, morality is a luxury. And the Ravryn never had much coin for luxuries.

Their settlements are hidden—makeshift outposts built in ruined towers, broken fortresses, the hollow shells of places long dead. They thrive in the cracks of crumbling empires. They speak in whispers and chuckles. Their wings don’t fly—but their words do.

“Tell me what you need,” a Ravryn might say, “and tell me what you’re paying. I’ll let you know which one matters more.”

Though they can’t fly, Ravryn still look to the sky.

They build makeshift gliders, tattered wings of canvas and bone. Some have tried to fly from Grimspire’s cliffs. Others built boats from Netherin wood, dreaming of distant shores. But the storm always returns. The tide always turns.

Ten Ravryn sail—one returns. Maybe.

And yet, they keep trying. Because even crows dream of the sky.

Secrets are a Ravryn’s true currency. Many act as spies-for-hire, infiltrating courtrooms, camps, cults—then vanishing with a whisper and a grin.

There are tales of a Ravryn named Vellok the Quiet, who once stole a Netherin war map, ate it to hide the evidence, and delivered the information in cryptic rhymes. He was paid in gold, mushrooms, and a single kiss on the beak from an Eldrin sorceress who laughed every time he spoke.

Another named Yalla Grimmhook runs a tavern built into a cliffside skull. No one knows her true age. She trades drinks for secrets, and if she likes your secret—she might not poison the drink.

They are not evil.
They are not good.
They are surviving.

They are a cracked mirror held up to Grimspire’s face, reflecting the cost of a world at war. And yet… they remain.
Laughing.
Scavenging.
Hoping.
Trying to build wings from broken things.

Even in hell, a Ravryn might smile—and tell you a joke worth dying for.