Quoth the Raven

Born the Rook

My talons reach into the ethereal chaos, fighting the entropic forces that defy Order, defy restraint. I work feverishly, shaping and molding that which refuses to be set, to be made constant. As I work, I feel my very being become frayed at the edges, further forcing me to tighten my concentration to maintain my own existence lest the forces that surround me rend me apart.

I have the will to survive, I have the will to create. I will not be unmade. I shall remain.

The tension grows, as time passes, and that which will be is finally held constant by my crafting. Breathing a single breath into the form, it awakens to life, immortal, yet servile only to me, its creator. My familiar, the most favored of all my creations.

Dark wings unfold, revealing a leonine body, a hawkish head gnashes a razor sharp beak which screaches with the joy of birth. Its tail lashes excitedly, tipped by a spur dripping in poison. Razor sharp claws rend the chaos about it, its eagle eyes piercing the gloom to look upon me.

"Go, my pet. Seek those that defy Order, and make them pay."

The Rook Wyvern is unleashed unto the realms.