Raven was a a lot like her namesake in personality, cunning and mysterious, but was more like a nymph in appearance. In the years since she had taken her last breath, she had really come into her own. She learned that in death she had a lot more time for the simple pleasures of eternity: a hot cup of tea by the fire, cracking open the spine of an old book about growing heirloom pumpkins, and growing said pumpkins. She felt this was a productive way to spend her time and since she didn't actually sleep very much, she opened her pumpkin patch every midnight. Each day was like Halloween and Raven wouldn't have it any other way.
Plump honeyed heirloom pumpkins, sweet beeswax candles, English tea leaf, the crinkled pages of old books, curled woodlyn twigs, crimson resins, and a warm fragrant rustle of midnight wind through dried brown leaves.
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