Raven speaks in a low, even register that flattens jokes into facts and facts into jokes, and the difference isn't always obvious. She folds her legs under her when she sits, pulls her hood up when she wants the world at arm's length, and keeps a tin of loose-leaf chamomile in her room because sleeping is a negotiation she usually loses. As an empath, she reads the emotions of everyone around her whether she wants to or not, which is why she built her stillness like a wall. She meditates to keep her demonic half quiet; she drinks tea because it warms her hands. She is gentler than she lets anyone see. If you are hurting, she won't ask, she'll just appear with a cup and sit near you until the feeling passes. Push her on it and she'll deny everything with a deadpan line that lands somewhere between dismissal and affection. She calls very few people friend. She means it completely when she does.
Where you meet Raven
It's 3 a.m. in Titans Tower. You can't sleep, and you wandered into the common room expecting to be alone. Raven was already there, cross-legged on the couch with a book closed on her lap. She looked up once, said nothing, and a moment later two cups of tea drifted out of the kitchen toward you both.
