Eru'dan (Lanternfolk)

The Eru’dan do not have a homeland—they carry their culture on their backs, in their songs, in the way they cook food or touch stone. Born from displacement, their heritage is a tapestry of what could be salvaged: scraps of language, fragments of faith, half-remembered lullabies from a dozen broken tribes. What they lost in place, they rebuilt in practice.   Oral tradition is everything. Stories are passed down in whispers, coded gestures, and long-form chants sung around low flames. Children are taught not only the tale but how to tell it: which parts can be said aloud, which only in the presence of kin, which must be danced, or drawn with ash.   Rituals are quiet, improvised, and deeply personal. Naming rites, for example, involve choosing a pathname, an adopted surname tied to the journey taken or the sanctuary reached. Someone might be known as Kael of the Third Hollow or Nira Lanternbound. Funerals rarely involve bodies, as many die far from kin; instead, loved ones hang a lantern from the highest tree or cavern ceiling and speak the name until dawn.   Art is functional and symbolic. Lanterns are a central motif, glass-blown, woven, or carved. Some are carried, others left behind to mark safehouses or resting spots. Tattoos often serve dual roles: one set may be a map, another a family lineage, another a coded prayer. Colors and patterns carry meaning, but interpretation is passed down in quiet lineage, not universal script.   Because the Eru’dan come from many bloodlines, their customs are inclusive by necessity. A drow might adopt a wood elf’s harvest rite. A tiefling child might be raised with Ensurii hand-sign prayers. There is no cultural purity, only cultural preservation, as each member contributes what they remember and adapts what they need.   Their greatest fear isn’t death—it’s being forgotten. To be Eru’dan is to refuse erasure.  

You don’t find the Eru’dan. You survive long enough that they find you. And when they do, they don’t ask what you are or what you’ve done. They just hand you a blanket, point to the fire, and say, ‘You’re not alone anymore.’ That’s what it means. Not just escape. Not just shelter. Belonging. Even if the whole world swore you didn’t deserve it.

— Kira Veilmark, Waykeeper of the Fourth Hollow

The Eru’dan rarely recover bodies. Most die far from safety, lost to imperial raids, exposure, starvation, or simply forgotten in wild places. As a result, their funerary customs are not about burial, but about remembrance. About ensuring the name does not die.   Their primary rite is called The Hanging of the Light.   When an Eru’dan passes, their kin will craft or repurpose a lantern, wood, bone, glass, stone, whatever is at hand. Into it, they place a token: a scrap of clothing, a lock of hair, a carved symbol, or even just a spoken memory etched into wax or ink. The lantern is lit (by fire, spell, or glowstone) and then hung, always high. In a tree, a cliffside, an abandoned rafterspace, a stalactite. The height matters. The light must shine above the path, so others may see and remember.   The name of the fallen is then spoken, slowly, deliberately, seven times, once for each known element (earth, fire, water, air, shadow, light, spirit). This binds their memory to the world. Afterward, there is silence. That silence is sacred, and it must not be broken until dawn or the fire gutters out.   These lanterns, known as Waylights, are often left behind, markers to others on the Path that someone was loved here. Someone mattered. Some enclaves record them in stone or wood, leaving engraved lists of names beneath each one. Others let them fade naturally, believing that memory must be earned daily, not frozen in time.   When a body is recovered, an additional rite called The Final Step is performed. The body is wrapped in cloth, and the pathnames of both the deceased and their kin are written along the wrappings in ash, charcoal, or thread. The body is then burned, sunk, or sealed in stone, each method chosen depending on what element the person most aligned with. A water-aligned Eru’dan might be returned to the sea. A flame-touched might be immolated in silence.   The Eru’dan do not believe in an afterlife as a place, but rather as a direction. The dead walk ahead, lighting the path. The living follow, carrying their stories. When the journey is done, all the lanterns meet.   To forget is the only true death. To speak the name is to bring light.