Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
—The Raven, Edgar Allen Poe
I am Raven, not named for the color of my hair or eyes, but for my habit of picking off what the dead have left behind, for my sometimes sinister disposition, for my cryptic and sometimes misunderstood comments. I chose Rohan for my home long years ago, when the horse-lord of that land were but heathens under Gondor’s rule. And now, I present my stories, my poems, my songs, to you. Following are many accounts, some mine, some that I have gathered on my travels.