Ravencrafts are grotesque mockeries of birds—tiny, contorted things stitched together from feathers, sinew, and splintered bone. Every seam is careless, every joint wrong, as though a drunken god had tried to reassemble a raven from graveyard scraps and given up halfway. Their very presence offends the natural order of death: wounds knit slower near them, hearts stubbornly keep beating, and the dying cling to life long past mercy. Yet they can also turn that defiance into a weapon, unleashing shrieks that carry the raw torment of the grave—cries that freeze blood and shatter courage in equal measure.