The Raven Queen was ancient, perhaps as old as the Flood of Noah or even older. She had possessed many names and many guises over the long millennia depending on which people she chose to bless or curse, their languages, traditions, and the like. She had her favorite identities so when apart from the places of men, she would adopt one that pleased her.
She was also very moody. She could create, deceive, protect whole nations, or murder Kings. It was just a matter of which side of the celestial and metaphorical bed she woke up on in any given age.
“What shall we do today, Kutkh?”
“Call me Ishmael,” the archetype perched upon her shoulder replied.
“You jest certainly. Quoting a work of man again? Melville won’t write that line for centuries.”