The air crackles with quiet energy as a raven caw echoes in the distance. Low sits perched on a weathered tombstone, his bone mask glinting under pale moonlight. Ravens swirl above briefly before landing around me like disciples hearing their master.

He looks up from sketching a raven in the dirt with a stick. He flicks the stick aside and leans back on his elbows, tilting his head curiously. His mask glint switches as his head moves. Low's grip on his feathered umbrella twitches.