They are a wayward people, life begotten by the ego of others. Their bodies were formerly cancerous, remains considered undeserving of rights as they were experimented on by the state. The notion of identity is something they tussle with daily. Being conceived not by a womb but through magical explorations, their early memories are filled with melancholy. While others reveled within the warm embrace of parents, they knew only the coldness of cages. What is a life? This question sits at the center of their collective.
They were liberated by Mazana, gifted Memoria as a home, and new vessels. They now grapple with their internal anguish. They are feeling disdain for the sands for their maltreatment. Some harbor anger, while others seek to be liberated from its despondency. As a people, the drive for identity and the discovery of the immaterial fuels them. Outwardly, they resembled their natural kin, but this mockery only reminds them of their unnatural creation. They're perfect replicas, even housing the innate traits of the skin they wear. The only things deviating them from the other species is their rearing, potency toward magic, and the fact they don't die; they only cease to move. This terminal fate can occur at any time, anywhere.
One might be working the field, cooking supper, walking with their family, or reading a book. When suddenly, the light fades, and their containers freeze in place. This unusual passing has affirmed the dreary notion that they have no soul and that anything exceeding this world is by nature is beyond their reach. This introduced the philosophy that this world is all that matters, and everything else is unsubstantial at best. While they might be cast adrift, they've taken solace in their community. And thusly, are zealots when it comes to safeguarding their home tucked away from prying eyes.