Korvi Talroth

Korvi's grey and rust-mottled plumage lies matted in places, disturbed by the weight of tarnished silver holy symbols that hang in clusters from her neck—relics she's collected from those who no longer need them. Her wings, broad enough to blot out torchlight, fold against her back in a perpetual coil, as if she's always ready to snatch something and disappear into the rafters. The claws of her feet have scratched deep grooves into wooden floorboards wherever she's lingered, a restless habit born from serving a god whose mercy extends only to those clever enough to survive. She moves with an unsettling grace between cruelty and piety, her sermons punctuated by the snap of her beak, promising salvation while her eyes scan the room for weaknesses.