2025-04-14 13:10

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Raven Valley is the kind of character you remember like a smell—sunbaked metal, dried resin, and lightning on sand. At eighteen, she’s already earned a reputation in the barter canyons as a sharp-eyed scavenger and unlicensed climber, known for her cracked grapple belt and the jagged streak of ash-dye in her braids. Raised by a half-broken solar archive and a grandmother who spoke in riddles, Raven balances ritual and reason with a dry smirk and dirt under her nails.

Her totem is the Twilight Crow, but she doesn’t pray—she negotiates. She’s stitched up her own leg more than once, and once bartered a Pop-pop gum cache for a mechanical arm she never needed—just to win. “The world doesn’t owe me balance,” she once muttered, “but it hates being outsmarted.”

Her world is hostile, half-magic and half-machine, with traps set by time and things older than time. Still, she moves like someone who’s already survived the worst day of her life. In Risk vs. Reward, she’s seen dangling upside-down over a nest of wolf wasps, calmly reciting trade protocol mid-fall. Not because she expects rescue—but because remembering the rules is how she stays sane. And alive.