The Carthsars are not born to their station but claimed by it, wanderers who have shed their names to become vessels for the world's forgotten tragedies. Clad in tattered finery and porcelain masks that never change expression, these itinerant mummers haunt the dusty crossroads of the world. It is whispered that to become a Carthasar, one must whisper their true name into a hollow grave, trading their identity for the ability to channel the echoes of the past through dance and discordant song. A Carthasar never speaks, communicating only through the exaggerated gestures of their craft. They appear at the edge of town squares as the sun dips low, a somber omen that secrets are about to be unearthed. While they lack martial prowess, their power lies in the unsettling accuracy of their portrayals, often reenacting scenes of local murders or ancient betrayals that no living soul should know. Villagers often offer a Carthasar a silver piece to keep them moving, for a prolonged stay suggests a deep rot in the community. Adventurers might find themselves the subject of a play, watching as the masked performer mimics a private conversation held leagues away, or points a gloved finger toward a cellar where a body lies freshly buried. To follow a Carthasar is to chase the truth, though the truth rarely brings comfort to those who hear it.