The Hunt, Part One

The Hunt, part one

Max felt as if the air around him had suddenly been sucked away, and saw the daylight dappled through the park foliage shift as if the world was moving away from him. He steadied himself against the rough trunk of a nearby tree, and took a deep breath as the feeling of disorientation passed. This was no new experience for him. He made it happen when he made things happen. It was the way it felt when someone warped reality. Only this time someone else had made it happen, and by the intensity of it, whoever had done so was close.
He'd always suspected that there were others like him, although he'd never met any, nor had he ever sought them out. He'd felt these disturbances before, but they had always been vague and distant, like the distant plucking of a strand on an infinite web. But this had been very close. In fact, the vibrations had been getting closer and more frequent since he'd first heard the music only a few days ago.
He called it ‘music’ for lack of a better word, but it had no discernable voices, nor instrumental orchestrations that he could identify. It was pure sound, like the reverberation of the universe itself, constantly unfolding into patterns like melodies merging into complex themes and movements. Sometimes it seemed very loud and at other times it was faint; just on the edge of his awareness.
At first he’d thought he was hearing a neighbor’s stereo playing, or maybe someone’s car passing by, but then he realized he was hearing it everywhere he went, no matter what he was doing. For a moment he thought maybe he'd gone crazy, or maybe the universe had caught up to him for all the times he had messed with it. Or maybe something else was happening. Someone or something was making the music, and it was calling to the others the way it was calling to Max. Whatever was making the music was here, in the City, and the others were coming. He could feel it just as he could feel the plucking and pulling of reality getting stronger.
Max had never felt the need to find others of his kind. Instinctively, he'd kept the secret of the things he could do even from his parents. He'd never even wondered if they could do those things too. He'd never asked, nor did he think that they'd have told him even if they could. Occasionally, he had crossed paths with someone he'd suspected, but the encounters had been brief and superficial, so that he'd never been quite sure of his own suspicions. But now the music seemed to be calling them all together, and Max knew that it would only be a matter of time before he was forced to meet them. Soon, he thought, but not today.
He knew what it was like to be hunted in the park, not by anyone who could actually catch him, but by the run-of-the-mill sort of angry people whose fear and self-loathing he could sense a mile away. This wasn’t so different. He could sense the one that hunted him by the distortions it caused, but he knew that he gave himself away every time he yanked at reality.
He pressed his hands against the cold gray stone of the wall that bounded the park and looked up. It was maybe twenty feet up to the wrought iron railing that marked the street level. He could take the long way up and avoid giving himself away, but he knew it was too late for that now. The one who hunted him already knew where he was, needing no further beacon, and Max just needed to get away fast.
He reached up for the iron rail and the world warped around him, only this time the purpose was his, and he maintained his focus. He pulled himself up and over the railing, and then something tugged hard at him, threatening to pull him back. He tensed reflexively, ready to strike out in self defense, but it was only the strap of his messenger bag that had snagged on one of the finials on the iron railing. He freed himself and sighed with momentary relief. He’d been sloppy, and that was dangerous.
The sounds of traffic on the street before him were somehow comforting, but the music was growing louder again, threatening to drown out the other sounds. The people in the cars seemed oblivious to him and to the music, and that was also comforting. Across the street from where he stood rose the museum, its monumental architecture conjuring images of some faraway place that he had never been to, but which he somehow remembered as if he'd dreamt of being there. The memory was also comforting.
He crossed the street, recklessly, almost slamming into a yellow taxi cab as it suddenly lurched forward to take advantage of a break in the traffic. He hardly heard the honking of the horn or the yelling of the driver as he made it to the front steps of the museum. The music was overwhelmingly loud now, as if he’d turned it up with his escape from the park. He looked around for signs of people, but other than the drivers in their cars, there was no one else nearby. A sleek black cat stepped lightly out of a hedge and onto the steps.
Max reached for the door and nearly fell over as another sudden distortion wave seemed to pull the door handle away from him. He was nauseated by the intensity of it. This one had happened very close; almost right on him. He recovered his senses and was suddenly aware of another person standing next to him. A skinny kid with jet black hair falling messily over bright eyes stood next to him dressed in black jeans and an oversized black sweater, and carrying the same black army surplus messenger bag that Max carried. In fact, except for the black hair, which looked dyed, the kid could have been Max a few years younger.
“What are you,” Max asked, “a shape-changer?”
The kid took a small, cautious step toward him. He had a worried look in his eyes.
“Someone’s after me,” he said.
“Why me, then?” Max asked.
“Because I know we can help each other,” the kid said.
“Yeah?” Max said. “What makes you think I need help?”
“Because they’re after you too,” he said, reaching out to offer his hand to Max.
“I’m Charlie.”
Max could smell him now, faintly. It was a familiar scent; one that reminded him of family. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed by the urge to protect this kid, as if everything depended on it.
“I’m Max,” he said, taking the kid’s hand.
“I know,” Charlie said.
“You can read my mind too?” Max asked.
“Not exactly,” Charlie said. “But I heard it in the music.”
“So you can hear it too,” Max said.
“We all can,” Charlie said, “some more than others.”
“What else do you know about the music?” Max asked, aware that it was getting dark around them.
“Not much,” Charlie said.
Max sensed that whatever had been following him had withdrawn, and with it the music had receded to the background. Maybe the hunter had not counted on two of them, or maybe it had not counted on them working together. Why would it? Judging by his own nature, Max imagined that partnerships among his kind were rare at best.
“Why did you come here,” Charlie asked, “to the museum?”
“I don’t really know,” Max said. “I guess I was trying to get away from someone down in the park.”
“Maybe you meant to come here,” Charlie said. He had stuck his hands in his pockets and looked like he was feeling cold.
“Why did you come here,” Max asked. “Were you looking for me?”
“No, I wasn’t expecting to find you here,” Charlie said. “But then I did, and it’s lucky for both of us.”
“Well, we’ll see about that,” Max said, but he knew the kid was right. Because of Charlie he’d avoided an all-out confrontation with something he felt had meant malice toward him. And it was possible that Charlie had been trying to get away from something too.
“Actually, I was coming to the museum to see someone,” Charlie said.
“Someone you know,” Max asked.
“No,” Charlie said, shaking his head, “but someone who might be able to tell us something about the music.”
“Someone like us,” Max asked.
“Not like us,” Charlie said. “He takes drugs and then he can hear the music too.”
“A sorcerer,” Max said.
“A doctor,” Charlie said, bringing a business card out of his pocket and showing it to Max. It had the museum’s logo, phone numbers and address on it, and the name on the card read: Dion Cantor, PhD. The name was familiar but Max couldn’t quite remember where he’d heard it before.
He was intrigued, but cautious. A sorcerer! What exactly did the kid have in mind, he wondered. Revealing himself to one of his own kind was difficult enough, but making contact with one of those who studied them, and who used secret ways of artificially replicating the things that Max and his kind could do naturally was something altogether different. That kind of person could rarely be trusted. In fact, it might have been just such a person that had hunted him only moments before in the park.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, kid,” Max said. “I don’t know if I’d trust a sorcerer.”
Charlie huffed, and looked at Max defiantly.
“Do you have a better idea?” he asked. “Do we follow the others and find the one making the music?”
Max sighed. “No,” he said. “I don’t know.”
“He has more to be afraid of than we do, Max,” Charlie said.
“Anyway, the museum’s about to close,” Max said.
Charlie smiled for the first time, a crooked little half-smile.
“Not for us, Max,” he said. “You know that.”

The Ahamun: Northmen of the World of Caerdolan

The Ahamun
Also known as Northmen, Ahamun (Old Faranxian: "Sea Men") live in the northernmost regions of the Korman Empire (Mainlands) and are culturally and historically related to the Warlanders with whom they interract extensively. The Ahamun king Beor (Beorn) the Old is in fact related through marriage to Murad of Silegby, and led a force of fighting men in the final battle against the Varanáa on the Caerdolas Plain.
Although culturally identitcal to one another, Ahamun do not see themselves as belonging to a single nation or ethnicity. Rather, they identify more with their particular lineages, clans, and liege lords than with political territories, except in cases wherein those territories have become conceptualized as ancestral homelands or otherwise associated with clans and lineages. Thus, two Ahamun from two different clans or chiefdoms will likely consider each other to be "foreigners" or "enemies" depending on current alliances and their respective political affiliations, even if they are considered to be of the same "race" or "culture" by outsiders.
The term "Ahamun" is used primarily by outsiders, including Korman imperial authorities, to refer to all of the people of the northern regions sharing a particular language and culture, but especially to those living within the borders of the empire. Ahamun living in the Northlands beyond are generally referred to as "Northlanders" or "Norlanders" or simply "Northmen," even if they are culturally and linguistically indistinguishable from the Ahamun of the Mainlands. Thus, there is no formal or centralized Ahamun state or nation, but rather a collection of petty kingdoms and semi-nomadic clans living across a vast and largely remote region, and belonging to often fleeting and constantly fluctuating clan coalitions and political alliances.
Although some Ahamun are subsistence farmers or pastoralists, the bulk of their livelihood depends on maritime activities. This includes fishing, harvesting seaweed and marine invertibrates, whaling and hunting in the icy polar seas, but just as imporantly, piracy and raiding for food and trade items from coastal lands. More often than not Ahamun pirates and raiders attack other Ahamun communities viewed as foreigners or enemies depending on the local political conditions at the given time. Ahamun also raid non-Ahamun communities within range of their fleets, and while outlawed by the Korman Empire, most of this activity occurs in places too remote for imperial military forces to properly police them. For this reason, Ahamun piracy and raiding goes largely unchecked, except in territories protected by powerful local rulers. In some cases Ahamun warlords and sea captains collect tribute from small communities in return for "protection" from raids.
Physically, Ahamun tend to be tall in stature and heavy-limbed. They are generally fair complexioned, fair-haired, and with blue or green eyes, although individuals with dark hair and eyes are not unknown (and are referred to locally as "dark" or "black"). Men and women usually grow their hair long, often braided or tied into a large knot at the back of their head. Ahamun men in the Mainlands sometimes cut their hair shorter, in keeping with the styles of neighboring Faranx. Regardless of hair length, though, Ahamun men proudly wear full beards and mustaches, often neatly groomed. Beards are a mark of manhood, of maturity and status, and the ability to grow a full beard often marks the transition from adolescence to manhood, regardless of age. A beardless man is viewed with suspicion as being either "womanish" or even having some supernatural quality (such as Elvish ancestry). Most Ahamun clothing consists of long or short tunics and either fitted or baggy trousers for men, and simple gowns layered under long, apron-like garments and shawls for women, usually of wool or linen often dyed in festive colors, with a preference for blue, green, yellow, and sometimes muted reds or black. In the winter both men and women wear cloaks, capes, hats and hoods of furs over woolen clothing.
Culturally, Ahamun are distinct from other peoples of the Mainlands. They share a language which they usually refer to as "our tongue," "our language," or "the common language," but which is known to the rest of the world as "Ahamunic" or "Norlandic." Most Ahamun also speak Imperial Common (a.k.a. Korman or Modern Faranxian). Across their vast territories Ahamun and Norlanders also share common foodways, rules of etiquette and hospitality, mortuary rituals, material culture including technology, ship-building, art and architecture, music, and a distinct bardic and literary tradition. They also share a common tradition of patriarchy and patrilineal descent (i.e. descent traced along the father's lineage) which is the foundation of their political organization and personal identities.
Most Ahamun are at least nominally Roskian, having been heavily influenced for centuries by Roskian missionary priests and monastic orders. However, even those who consider themselves to be devout Roskians often pray to popular local spirits and legendary heroes (many of which have become syncretised with Roskian saints or reinterpreted in Roskian terms). Roskian religious and cultural influence is most prevalent among the Ahamun living on the Mainlands. Those living in the Northlands (i.e. Norlanders) are more generally apt to worship the "Old Gods," the pagan religion traditional to all Ahamun, and the tenets and worldview of which still greatly informs Ahamun values, beliefs, and attitudes across their entire social world. This religion consists of a pantheon of gods possessing human qualities and led by a celestial patriarch known by the epithets of Sky Father or simply Skye, or by the names Woten, Woken, Wodun, or Odun. On the Mainlands this figure has been syncretized with the Caerdolan Páarun. Nearly as important is a thundering god of earthquakes and smithying known as Torun and often syncretized with Mahar or the chthonic Oken. Both Odun and Torun are warrior gods, and their preeminence in Ahamun religious and mythological traditions reveals the prestige and value given to martial valor and the warrior lifestyle in Ahamun culture. A hereditary class of elite warriors known as bersarks (i.e. "berserkers") are believed to become possessed by the spirits of the warrior gods or their attendant spirits when they manifest a devastating battle rage, and belong to particular lineages said to have been descended in long line from the sexual union of the gods with mortal women. Among many Ahamun of the Mainlands, the Caerdolan god Nehal is also worshipped as a patron of sailors and shipwrights.
While magic is generally feared, and magic-using individuals viewed with suspicion or at best ambivalence, there are a number of magical traditions among the Ahamun, and magic is generally more prevalent than in mainstream Mainlander society. The most common form of magic among the Ahamun is related to their bardic traditions, and involves spells and incantations sung in accordance with ancient formulae and related to myths about creation and the establishment of the social order. A form of wizarding magic based on runic divination, charms, and magical protection also depends on complex understanding of Ahamun mythology and cosmology as related in their bardic lore and runic literature. It is distinct from the Porphyran-Caerdolan wizarding traditions dominating the Mainlands, is associated aspects of the gods Odun and Torun, and believed by some to be related to Dwarvish Maharan traditions. In addition to these, although less common, are Druidic traditions derived from ancient chthonic shamanism and a kind of "natural" magic inherent in individuals believed to have Elvish or Fey elements in their ancestry. This is in fact true, as many Ahamun are descended from human tribes living in close proximity to ancient Elven (including High Elven) strongholds. Some Ahamun are also believed to be descended at least in part from Dwarvish or Giant ancestors. The latter tend to be of great stature, often have a propensity for either heroism or villainy, and usually possess inherent magic. Despite the relatively high prevalence of magic, and the popularity of consulting diviners and charm-makers, most Ahamun distrust it, viewing it as belonging alternatively to the realm of the dead, gods, supernatural spirits, or in Roskian terms, as "witchcraft" or "devilry."