Gishərva
On Gishərvan Ancestor Veneration in the Age of Shortcuts
As dictated, debated, and dutifully annotated by Orzan Menerathrope, Scholar Laureate of Ghalan’s Oak and Tireless Corrector of Cultural Misunderstanding
One of the most widely recognized and oft-misunderstood elements of Gishərvan identity is their practice of ancestor veneration—a spiritual cornerstone deeply rooted in the greater Orkäen traditional belief system. Unlike many other cultures that clutter their heavens with gods, demigods, and celestial bureaucrats, the Gishərva hold no such pantheon. Instead, they revere only those who came before: deified ancestors, believed to watch not from some distant divine realm, but from the stone beneath their feet, the branches above, and the very breath between moments.
Though the Gishərva have, over the Ages, gradually integrated with other races—economically, theologically, and regrettably, architecturally—they have retained a number of their ancestral traditions. These are still viewed with reverence, though now often practiced with a certain... shall we say, urban efficiency.
You see, while many Gishərva still pay lip service to the rites of their ancestors, the truth is that the vast majority now reside in cities and structured villages, far removed from the endless, whispering depths of the Kathrakian forests where these beliefs first took shape. And with that distance has come the inevitable: shortcuts. Rituals that once took days are now compressed into an hour and a half (with refreshments), and sacred chants have been replaced with pre-scripted recitations read from pocket scrolls, usually just before dinner.¹
That said, there does remain a smaller, stubborn branch of the population—rural clans, nomadic circles, and forest-bound devotees—who still observe the old ways in all their elaborate, beautifully impractical glory. Their ceremonies remain long, deeply symbolic, and often involve far too many candles and antlers for most modern homes.
One such ritual was relayed to me by An’thi Al-nong, an elder of a particularly isolated Gishərvan clan whom I encountered in the far western reaches of Kathak some years ago. A stoic figure of few words and far too many wrinkles, An’thi spoke of rites that would make even the most devout city-born Gishərvan weep—partly from awe, and partly from exhaustion.
A detailed account of that ritual follows. I do hope you’ve eaten.
¹ I once attended a Gishərvan “City Rite of Remembrance” in the capital of Olorath. It began with a heartfelt invocation and concluded with complimentary seed cakes and a musical performance entitled “Echoes of Our Elders” performed entirely on glass flute. I clapped politely and left early. —OM
As dictated, debated, and dutifully annotated by Orzan Menerathrope, Scholar Laureate of Ghalan’s Oak and Tireless Corrector of Cultural Misunderstanding
One of the most widely recognized and oft-misunderstood elements of Gishərvan identity is their practice of ancestor veneration—a spiritual cornerstone deeply rooted in the greater Orkäen traditional belief system. Unlike many other cultures that clutter their heavens with gods, demigods, and celestial bureaucrats, the Gishərva hold no such pantheon. Instead, they revere only those who came before: deified ancestors, believed to watch not from some distant divine realm, but from the stone beneath their feet, the branches above, and the very breath between moments.
Though the Gishərva have, over the Ages, gradually integrated with other races—economically, theologically, and regrettably, architecturally—they have retained a number of their ancestral traditions. These are still viewed with reverence, though now often practiced with a certain... shall we say, urban efficiency.
You see, while many Gishərva still pay lip service to the rites of their ancestors, the truth is that the vast majority now reside in cities and structured villages, far removed from the endless, whispering depths of the Kathrakian forests where these beliefs first took shape. And with that distance has come the inevitable: shortcuts. Rituals that once took days are now compressed into an hour and a half (with refreshments), and sacred chants have been replaced with pre-scripted recitations read from pocket scrolls, usually just before dinner.¹
That said, there does remain a smaller, stubborn branch of the population—rural clans, nomadic circles, and forest-bound devotees—who still observe the old ways in all their elaborate, beautifully impractical glory. Their ceremonies remain long, deeply symbolic, and often involve far too many candles and antlers for most modern homes.
One such ritual was relayed to me by An’thi Al-nong, an elder of a particularly isolated Gishərvan clan whom I encountered in the far western reaches of Kathak some years ago. A stoic figure of few words and far too many wrinkles, An’thi spoke of rites that would make even the most devout city-born Gishərvan weep—partly from awe, and partly from exhaustion.
A detailed account of that ritual follows. I do hope you’ve eaten.
¹ I once attended a Gishərvan “City Rite of Remembrance” in the capital of Olorath. It began with a heartfelt invocation and concluded with complimentary seed cakes and a musical performance entitled “Echoes of Our Elders” performed entirely on glass flute. I clapped politely and left early. —OM
Culture
Common Customs, traditions and rituals
It is often said that if you wish to understand a people, look not at their palaces, but their graves. In the case of the Orkäen subrace, the Gishərva, I would amend that slightly: look at their forests, their bones, and their impressively well-dressed corpses.
The Orkäen as a whole possess no pantheon of deities—not a single skybound god nor flame-wreathed idol among them. Instead, the Gishərva venerate their ancestors, elevating them to a status most other races reserve for celestial beings or charmingly misbehaving trickster spirits. For the Gishərva, divinity is not above, but beneath—their revered dead believed to dwell within the very stone and soil they walk upon.
When a Gishərva perishes (and assuming, of course, the body is recoverable—a detail not always guaranteed given their enthusiasm for peril), a deeply sacred and meticulously observed ritual begins. The corpse is first anointed in a mixture of honey, ash, and blood—a thick, pungent concoction prepared with great care by the local Magi Mother and her ever-dour assembly of ritual attendants.¹
This ceremonial coating serves as both a preservative and a spiritual conduit, preparing the body for its passage into the ancestral realm. Or so the tradition holds. Personally, having stood rather too close to the preparation basin during one such rite, I can attest that it also functions with remarkable effectiveness as a flytrap. A dual-purpose solution, as it were.
Following the anointing, a processional march commences. Picture, if you will, a solemn parade featuring drums, horns, and the sort of wailing one typically associates with banshees or theater auditions. The body is borne to the commune longhouse, where the family proceeds to bathe it in springwater and crushed tulips. Delightful scent, tragic symbolism.
Next, the body is laid upon an altar fashioned from bone and hide—yes, truly—where it remains under open sky for a full day and night. This ritual exposes the deceased to both sun and moon, symbolizing their return to the natural cycle. Meanwhile, the clan engages in a celebratory vigil: singing, dancing, feasting, and occasionally, as I observed firsthand, getting aggressively drunk in the deceased’s honor.
By the following moon noon (an Orkäen term for midnight—how poetic), the most sacred act unfolds: the reading of a life. This is done, not through spoken word or charades, but rather through enterrpriting the tattoos on the body. Yes, tattoos—those sacred little ink-bound memoirs the Orkäen so love to collect across their skin, each one a story, a scar, or in some cases, a questionable life decision immortalized in stylized swirls.
The Gishərva and the desert-dwelling Shinzi'gwa peoples both, tattoo their stories upon their skin throughout life, but depending on your clan—each mark could be for pride or shame, each symbol a deed or a failing. But I digress, back to the Gishərva. Most elderly Gishərvans are practically covered from head-to-toe in tattooes that signify a life well lived. The Magi reads these aloud before the gathered clan, revealing the full tapestry of the departed’s life. Then, the final tattoo is given, across the eyelids, signifying the end of their earthly journey. A tasteful touch, if slightly unsettling in candlelight.
Afterward, the body is carried deep into the forest to a preselected tree—living or dead, that the deceased chose in their youth. The tree is dug up, its roots removed from the trunk, and the deceased is laid within the hollow. (And yes, it is as dramatic as it sounds.)
Now comes one of the more peculiar—and dare I say, poetic—moments in the Gishərvan funerary rites: the ritual of the Tusklings. These are the clan’s younger initiates, wide-eyed, overly earnest, and frequently covered in dirt for reasons that remain unclear. It is their solemn duty to gather seeds from the surrounding forest—each seed corresponding to a tattoo earned by the deceased in life.
Once the appropriate number of seeds has been collected (a task made significantly more dramatic by the presence of ceremonial chanting and much directional pointing), the Tusklings cup them carefully in their hands. Then, the children gather around the hole containing the body of the deceased and, in a moment of reverent hush, they lean in and whisper their hopes, dreams, and aspirations into the seeds in their cupped hands—as though confiding in the forest itself, before letting the seeds join the body.
According to Gishərvan beliefs, these whispered wishes will travel with the deceased into the afterlife, where the honored ancestor—now presumably reclining beneath a metaphysical tree—will hear them, consider them, and in time, whisper back. Guidance, protection, a well-timed gust of wind—who’s to say how ancestral advice arrives? But the Orkäen believe it does, and more importantly, they act as if it does, which in most societies is functionally the same thing.
And now we arrive at what is, without question, my favorite part of the whole affair: the tree. You see, the tree that once stood sentinel over the burial site is not simply discarded—oh no, that would be far too mundane for the the Gishərva. Instead, over the week that follows, the entire family of the deceased gathers around the felled trunk to whittle, hack, carve, and—inevitably—argue over the shaping of a memorial sculpture. It is, I must say, quite the emotional spectacle. Every family member participates, from the most stoic elder to the smallest child barely trusted with a chisel. Each mark carved into the wood is said to be a memory, each gouge a gesture of grief. The completed sculpture, once finished (or declared finished by consensus fatigue), is then affixed to the walls or fortifications of the village. Yes, you heard correctly—it becomes part of the village’s defenses. The symbolism is clear: the ancestors not only watch over their descendants, they quite literally hold up the walls.² But more than that, it stands as a promise: that one day, the spirit of the departed will return, reborn as a tree, to watch over the clan—ever-rooted, ever-watchful, and wholly unable to escape the family arguments that no doubt continue long after death.
A charming belief, truly.
¹ The Magi Mother in question was a formidable woman who once corrected my pronunciation with a glance, and who led the ceremony I attended, was a stern woman with bark-like hands and eyes that could wither crops. I admired her immensely. —OM
² I was politely invited to contribute a carving myself—an honor, I was told. I produced what I believed to be a rather elegant rendering of a weeping sun over a broken crown (symbolic, obviously). The Magi Mother deemed it "a bit dramatic" and repurposed my carving as firewood. I have since refrained from unsolicited artistic contributions. —OM
The Orkäen as a whole possess no pantheon of deities—not a single skybound god nor flame-wreathed idol among them. Instead, the Gishərva venerate their ancestors, elevating them to a status most other races reserve for celestial beings or charmingly misbehaving trickster spirits. For the Gishərva, divinity is not above, but beneath—their revered dead believed to dwell within the very stone and soil they walk upon.
When a Gishərva perishes (and assuming, of course, the body is recoverable—a detail not always guaranteed given their enthusiasm for peril), a deeply sacred and meticulously observed ritual begins. The corpse is first anointed in a mixture of honey, ash, and blood—a thick, pungent concoction prepared with great care by the local Magi Mother and her ever-dour assembly of ritual attendants.¹
This ceremonial coating serves as both a preservative and a spiritual conduit, preparing the body for its passage into the ancestral realm. Or so the tradition holds. Personally, having stood rather too close to the preparation basin during one such rite, I can attest that it also functions with remarkable effectiveness as a flytrap. A dual-purpose solution, as it were.
Following the anointing, a processional march commences. Picture, if you will, a solemn parade featuring drums, horns, and the sort of wailing one typically associates with banshees or theater auditions. The body is borne to the commune longhouse, where the family proceeds to bathe it in springwater and crushed tulips. Delightful scent, tragic symbolism.
Next, the body is laid upon an altar fashioned from bone and hide—yes, truly—where it remains under open sky for a full day and night. This ritual exposes the deceased to both sun and moon, symbolizing their return to the natural cycle. Meanwhile, the clan engages in a celebratory vigil: singing, dancing, feasting, and occasionally, as I observed firsthand, getting aggressively drunk in the deceased’s honor.
By the following moon noon (an Orkäen term for midnight—how poetic), the most sacred act unfolds: the reading of a life. This is done, not through spoken word or charades, but rather through enterrpriting the tattoos on the body. Yes, tattoos—those sacred little ink-bound memoirs the Orkäen so love to collect across their skin, each one a story, a scar, or in some cases, a questionable life decision immortalized in stylized swirls.
The Gishərva and the desert-dwelling Shinzi'gwa peoples both, tattoo their stories upon their skin throughout life, but depending on your clan—each mark could be for pride or shame, each symbol a deed or a failing. But I digress, back to the Gishərva. Most elderly Gishərvans are practically covered from head-to-toe in tattooes that signify a life well lived. The Magi reads these aloud before the gathered clan, revealing the full tapestry of the departed’s life. Then, the final tattoo is given, across the eyelids, signifying the end of their earthly journey. A tasteful touch, if slightly unsettling in candlelight.
Afterward, the body is carried deep into the forest to a preselected tree—living or dead, that the deceased chose in their youth. The tree is dug up, its roots removed from the trunk, and the deceased is laid within the hollow. (And yes, it is as dramatic as it sounds.)
Now comes one of the more peculiar—and dare I say, poetic—moments in the Gishərvan funerary rites: the ritual of the Tusklings. These are the clan’s younger initiates, wide-eyed, overly earnest, and frequently covered in dirt for reasons that remain unclear. It is their solemn duty to gather seeds from the surrounding forest—each seed corresponding to a tattoo earned by the deceased in life.
Once the appropriate number of seeds has been collected (a task made significantly more dramatic by the presence of ceremonial chanting and much directional pointing), the Tusklings cup them carefully in their hands. Then, the children gather around the hole containing the body of the deceased and, in a moment of reverent hush, they lean in and whisper their hopes, dreams, and aspirations into the seeds in their cupped hands—as though confiding in the forest itself, before letting the seeds join the body.
According to Gishərvan beliefs, these whispered wishes will travel with the deceased into the afterlife, where the honored ancestor—now presumably reclining beneath a metaphysical tree—will hear them, consider them, and in time, whisper back. Guidance, protection, a well-timed gust of wind—who’s to say how ancestral advice arrives? But the Orkäen believe it does, and more importantly, they act as if it does, which in most societies is functionally the same thing.
And now we arrive at what is, without question, my favorite part of the whole affair: the tree. You see, the tree that once stood sentinel over the burial site is not simply discarded—oh no, that would be far too mundane for the the Gishərva. Instead, over the week that follows, the entire family of the deceased gathers around the felled trunk to whittle, hack, carve, and—inevitably—argue over the shaping of a memorial sculpture. It is, I must say, quite the emotional spectacle. Every family member participates, from the most stoic elder to the smallest child barely trusted with a chisel. Each mark carved into the wood is said to be a memory, each gouge a gesture of grief. The completed sculpture, once finished (or declared finished by consensus fatigue), is then affixed to the walls or fortifications of the village. Yes, you heard correctly—it becomes part of the village’s defenses. The symbolism is clear: the ancestors not only watch over their descendants, they quite literally hold up the walls.² But more than that, it stands as a promise: that one day, the spirit of the departed will return, reborn as a tree, to watch over the clan—ever-rooted, ever-watchful, and wholly unable to escape the family arguments that no doubt continue long after death.
A charming belief, truly.
¹ The Magi Mother in question was a formidable woman who once corrected my pronunciation with a glance, and who led the ceremony I attended, was a stern woman with bark-like hands and eyes that could wither crops. I admired her immensely. —OM
² I was politely invited to contribute a carving myself—an honor, I was told. I produced what I believed to be a rather elegant rendering of a weeping sun over a broken crown (symbolic, obviously). The Magi Mother deemed it "a bit dramatic" and repurposed my carving as firewood. I have since refrained from unsolicited artistic contributions. —OM
