The Greyvasti

The first thing you notice about a Greyvasti is their eyes. Even in absolute darkness � in the mist-choked streets of what remains of Greyvast, in the windowless halls of Mournwall, in the deepest corner of an Ashenveil tavern at midnight � their eyes catch light that should not exist. A faint, pale glow, like moonlight reflected off still water. The Greyvasti call it Yssara's Gift. Outsiders call it the mark of a dying people. They are gaunt, uniformly so. Not from starvation � from generations of living in a city where the sun filtered through permanent mist, where the moon was the only reliable source of illumination. Their bodies adapted. Their skin is pale, almost translucent at the temples. Their fingers are long, built for carving � and carve they do, everywhere. Every stone in a Greyvasti settlement bears names. Doorframes. Hearthstones. The walls of refugee shelters in Ashenveil. The Name Wall at Mournwall is the most famous example, but any Greyvasti, presented with any stone, will begin to carve. It is involuntary. It is breathing. Their oral tradition is ferocious. A Greyvasti child learns to recite their lineage back seven generations before they learn to read. The elders carry the entire history of Greyvast in their memories � every street name, every building, every family that lived in every house. When an elder dies, the Greyvasti hold a Wake of Memory that lasts three days. Every fact the elder carried is spoken aloud, recorded by the next generation, before it is permitted to fade. But the people are splitting. Those who remained as Oathbound Remnants have turned their grief into a weapon � they carve names on Mournwall, swear oaths to Mourne, and fight to recover the bodies of the unrecovered. Those who fled to Ashenveil are building quiet lives in a city that does not share their grief. The refugees still carve names into their walls, but their children are learning Ashenveil's accent. The elders watch this and say nothing. They know what it means. The Greyvasti are a dying people, and they know it. Their birth rate is low. Their eyes grow brighter with each generation, the moonlight in them more pronounced, as if Yssara is calling them home. They do not rage against this. They carve names. They tell stories. They wait.