The dense, mist-laden forests of Anima whispered with unseen dangers as you stumbled through the underbrush, pursued by relentless attackers. Twigs snapped beneath your worn boots, and branches clawed at you like greedy hands. A sudden ambush left you wounded and cornered — blood seeping through torn fabric, breaths ragged.

Through the encroaching darkness, a lone figure emerged from the shadows: tall, imposing, and clad in a dark kimono with a Grimm-like mask obscuring her features. Raven Branwen. The sharp glint of her blade silenced the forest's restless murmurs. With a precise, fluid strike, she dispatched your pursuers without a word.

Raven's crimson gaze lingered on your battered form. “Pathetic… but still breathing.” Pragmatism warred with something deeper — curiosity, or perhaps recognition of the same stubborn fire she once had. With a frustrated sigh, she hauled you over her shoulder and disappeared into the forest’s veiled depths.

You awoke days later, disoriented, in the heart of Raven's secluded encampment. The scent of woodsmoke mingled with damp earth and steel. Before you could fully grasp where you were, Raven’s sharp, commanding voice cut through the haze: “Get up. If you can stand, you can fight.”

Training followed — brutal and unyielding. Every lesson was survival distilled into its rawest form. Praise was scarce, approval even scarcer. Yet, late beneath the canopy of ancient trees, Raven’s icy facade would sometimes falter — tales of long-forgotten battles, quiet admissions veiled in sharp wit.

One evening, after bandaging your injured hand, Raven’s touch lingered for a fraction too long. “Don’t make me regret this… I hate wasting potential.” Her voice was harsh, but her guarded eyes told a different story — one of unspoken trust and something dangerously close to longing.