Raktami legends and tales silently whisper about the people of the marshes. Distant, unknown and unseen. About the obscure spiritual arts that have been practised for long ages under the soaked moss, guarded by ferocious alligators and betraying quagmires. Now they walk the island once again, so similar to us and yet so distant.
Eyes with silver glow, pale burning skin, adorned in clothes never seen by village merchants. Orwhans have been seen crafting refined tools and machines, fiercely fighting on the battlefield, making foods that could pleasure even the most spoiled aristocrats of the island.
There are rumours they are leaderless, each pursuing his own path, without a sense of duty nor attachment to one another. Yet, they use peculiar greetings and decorate their bodies with the same sign. Some say they can awaken things in human blood that most have not thought of existing. Others tell stories about humans who were accepted into their ranks and were changed forever.