“Death is a farmer, and we are the harvest”
In the swamps and windswept plains of Kharrovast, death is a farmer, and we are the harvest. Respecting the impermanence of life and the finality of death, they built hospitals for the former and ancestral tombs for the latter.
They found joy in the bleakest times, and purpose in struggle. When they were given a gift, one may find it in pristine condition decades later, though they will not say how they managed it. Perhaps following their inclination to treasure and care for the things they had.
Any knowledge of the body not written or forgotten by the Kharrovastians exceeds that of many other nations' halls of learning.
There have been more tombs discovered in Kharrovast than in the rest of the world combined, though the sheer number of them seems too many for such a population.
Somehow, every single one has been so thoroughly defaced it's impossible to know who found their eternal rest in these once grand structures.