The elders tell of a raven born from twilight, with the markings of ancestors woven into its wings.
It didn’t soar in flocks, nor did it sing loud songs. It spoke only when the forest held its breath, and the spirits were listening.
Raven didn’t chase the light. Instead, it painted beauty within the shadows. Every step it took was a story, every feather it shed a memory. It gathered what the forest had forgotten — to help the world stay in balance.
They called it Tłag̱wii — the one who sees what’s hidden.
It hasn’t vanished.
It’s just quiet.
And still painting.
