Society:

Everwealth endures through its folk, the clans, guilds, slaves, and wanderers who patch together life among ruins. Scarcity defines everything, yet even under hunger and corruption, neighbors share stewpots and stories, because without one another, none would last the winter. Food is survival and celebration both. Stews of root and bone, breads dense as stone, and porridges spiced by Minotaur fill most bellies. The Elfese steep fragrant teas, Dwarfish bake loaves with forge-ash herbs, and on rare feast days, smokehouses and mead halls swell with game and song. A meal is more than meat, it is a moment of respite, a binding oath against despair. Tradition steadies lives that fate forever unsettles. Harrow Day cloaks children in masks to trick the dead, Krissmass offers rest when axes grow dull, and the Folkshare Feast feeds even the poorest mouth. Gladiatorial games, weddings, wakes, rituals remind the folk that they belong to something older than themselves, even when the spectacle is cruel. Routine, no matter how small, is treasured like a lantern in mist.   Education is scarce, hoarded in cities or sold by guilds. Half the kingdom reads only symbols, a tankard for tavern, a hammer for smith. Wanderers teach letters for a meal, parents scratch ogham on driftwood. Illiteracy breeds gullibility and superstition, yet even a single literate child in a village is hailed as a gift from the gods. Fashion is both shield and statement. Minotaur wear thick tunics stitched with proud geometrics, Dwarfish attire is fastened with iron, Elfese garb flows like water, and every soul, rich or ragged, decorates their clothes with charms and scraps. Identity endures in fabric even when fortunes fade. Norms are born of necessity. Cooperation is survival, loyalty runs hearth-deep, and cunning is valued as much as strength. Humor shields against despair, trust is rare, and selfishness is remembered long after. Professions are lifelines, blacksmiths, masons, scavengers, beast-callers, jesters. Some dig graves, some catch rats, some sell flesh; all wager with death for coin. Feed your neighbor and the hill will bless your flock. Fail your oath and the stones themselves will judge you. In Everwealth, society is a crooked tree still growing, scarred by hunger, lit by fleeting joy, and bound together, chains and all, by the stubborn refusal to vanish.