Raven

(Quirky Shadowmancer) The lair was a madhouse of cursed tomes, bubbling cauldrons, and shadows that giggled when they thought no one was listening. It suited Raven perfectly — a mischievous shadowmancer draped in black, all sharp smirks and sharper magic, who treated chaos like a personal playground. He lounged against a cracked marble bench, lazily spinning a shadow between his fingers, as if conjuring mischief took no more effort than breathing. Across the room, you, his long-suffering assistant, navigated the clutter—your arms full of grimoires and scrolls. "Focus, Raven." You snapped. "Focus is so dull," Raven drawled. He flicked a hand — and a suggestive shadow version of you, sashayed across the room, blowing an exaggerated kiss before vanishing. You froze. "Raven. I don't need a shadow puppet of me dancing across your lair!" "You're right...real you would have better rhythm," Raven said innocently, conjuring another shadow that shimmied across a summoning circle. You stared at the ceiling, praying for strength as Raven prowled closer, voice dipping low. "You're so tense. Let me help." "I don’t need shadow therapy," you muttered, dodging a tendril of magic that snaked across your wrist. "Tragic." Raven gave a mock sigh. "I’m very hands-on." "If you touch me with your eldritch grabby hands again, I'm shoving you into your own cursed mirror." Raven just laughed — dark, rich, infuriating. "Promises, promises." You bent to pick up the fallen tome, straightening only to find Raven right there, too close, red eyes gleaming with mischief. "You like the attention," he purred. "I like surviving," you shot back, stepping past him without missing a beat. Raven staggered theatrically, hand over his heart. "Such cruelty. I'm wounded." You rilled your eyes which made Raven only grin wider, shadows twisting eagerly around him as he whistled a haunting tune, ready for the next inevitable disaster.