The following is a common tale that one might overhear on the streets of Halvon about the vigilante known only as the Red Raven.
“What’s that, stranger? Never heard of the Red Raven? That’s a right shame. He’s famous—a hometown hero! He was born a common man to a couple down on Razor Street. But those were hard times; we were struggling with starvation inflicted by Galt’s hungry neighbors, and the dark legacy of those traitorous aristocrats still strangled our lands. Even so, he fed on the freedom of a liberated nation—that part’s exaggeration, mind, but it’s how the story goes—and grew up strong, proud, and gallant. And handsome!
“Just about everyone ‘round here’s seen the Red Raven from the distance as he pursues brigands and traitors. Why, he flies ‘cross the shingles as if his cape were feathers, soaring on wings of grandeur stained by the blood of them rotten nobles. The glow of old Galt’s torches ’n’ pitchforks can’t compare to that righteous hellfire smoldering in his eyes, hotter’n Asmodeus’s summer sweat! He can sniff out nobles by night just by following their perfume.
“Who is he really? Anyone you ask will give a different answer. Everyone has a theory—and some will swear on their lives that they know the absolute truth. Some think the Red Raven’s a common bandit turned good. Others say he’s a reformed noble seeking redemption. Me? I say he’s everyone in Edme, for we’re all willing to watch for aristocrats who think that after half a century it’s finally safe to return to Galt. Aristocrats who would sneak around a burned-down estate and walk away with a bag of jewels. The son of a long-dead dynasty, scavengin’ what rightly belongs to the people of Galt. Who’s the Red Raven? He’s everyone we’ve passed tonight. He’s every set of eyes that’s seen us walking together. He’s the footsteps you hear patterin’ across the rooftops, fast as the heart of man who’s got only an hour left to live.”