Mour for us, O child of laughter, and set your teeth in a killer's grin. Once, we were inaka mateda, the rainmakers, and we hounded the sick and dying to final rest. Now we are tanoka, unclean, broken, leaking marrow as our people die. A dry and lifeless season on the Endless Storm, and a gut-raddle pox on those we once called brothers, the cats that walk upright! They have brought us to destruction, and we will return the favor tenfold soon.
We are of the last of our kind, desperate seeds in a fallow field. It was not always so. In the light of First Morning, we were the children of Siracca, born of her union with Seb-at-Al the Moonlight Stranger. On a cool night, he came to her, padding through the plains like a quiet storm. The grasses parted where he walked, and his eyes were majesty unveiled. As her sisters fled with fear, Siracca went into the night and danced with this stranger, and he took her away to the top of mountains that scraped the sky. A full year as men know them, he loved her with the passion of bright thunder, then he led her back to her pride and blessed her as his own. Born of his seed, we were strong and hardy, with jaws that cracked the bones of buffalo. To the vanity of our cousins, we were ugly, and they set our kind apart. Poor Siracca howled her loneliness into the night, but Sebt-at-Al remained by her side, and in time, she was comforted.
In winter's season, Seb-atAl returned to bestow his zawadi, his father-gift upon his children. We were the choosers of the slain, said the father, the bringers of the grassland rain and the cullers of the flock. Our labors would bring the rains that fed the grasses, and our eyes would spot the weak and the infirm. Our jaws would offer salvation from a slow death by hunger, and we in turn would feed the little scavengers and the carrion-birds. It was a fair legacy he offered us, a birthright strengthened by magical gifts. For generations without number, we held to our ways, and the veldt prospered. In time, we clashed with our brethren, but the rightness of our cause prevailed. They had their task, we had ours, and both had meaning under Ahu.
The grasslands died. The deserts on the fringes grew to sweep away the world-that-was, eaten bare by the cattle and the goats. We moved to cull their flocks as well, but humans baited us, hunted us, and in time, we sought accord. These were strong men and women, and their blood strengthened our own line. In time, they came to see our purpose, and they joined the midnight hunts. Even so, the wild flocks faded. Our cousins sought the dwindling herds also, and we warred beneath the twilight for the food to feed our cubs. Then the white men came, with their loud machines and distant killers. The war between ourselves and catkind grew to desperate levels. They murdered our young, and we theirs, and the grasslands supped on blood from both. Then came the Endless Storm, and the battle reached an ending.
Bare your teeth, O my daughter, at the name of Black Tooth, slaughterer of our kind. It was he who learned the Yava of our people. It was he who raged across the lands, killing Ajaba, hyena and human all. It was his pride who swept the Serengeti like a murderous squall, and his minions who hunted us to the streets of Bombay. So merciless was the reach of Black Tooth that our king, Adjua Ka, called all of us together to rally and counterattack. In his cavern court, we gathered in the hundres -- men, women, metis and Kin, an army of hyenas, humans and we in between. Adjua ralied against the Simba and promised total war. It was a night of spirit-raising, war-planning, truth-telling. It was to be the night when the choosers of the slain took back the midnight land.
It became a trap instead.
Few of us escaped. I remember bristling fur and nervous eyes as the lions boomed across the night, and winds that cracked the hills and torrents which washed the campfires out as the Endless Storm bounded into view, tearing Folk and Kinfolk to pieces in their madness. In the lightning-flare and bursts of gunfire, I saw a wall of lions, leopards and men. Spirits howled on both sides and grappled in their own world as ours shook. We fought hard, we choosers of the slain, and we accounted for our lives in blood. But Black Tooth knew our Yava, and our people fell like raindrops to the land.
They killed everyone.
Oh, I escaped, and so did several others. Seeing how the battle went, we ran across the grasslands and summoned up spells to hide us. When we reached the cities, we scattered and hoped for the best. The ones who stayed were butchered, everyone. Each man and woman, Ajaba and hyena. Kits and Kinfolk, warriors and children. They slew us all, destroyed the court. To mock us, they decorated the site with skulls. So many lives, so many futures, so many tales forever lost. Mourn for us, O daughter of the rain, for we are the last of our kind.
But we are far from dead. It falls to us to build our kind anew, to coax the bitter soil to bring forth life. We must remain a gathered secret, must take advantage of this cluttered humans' world to dig ourselves a burrow while our anger burns anew. Our wise ones have called upon our father Seb-at-Al, and he has promised aid to us. Our seed is fertile, and we plant it everywhere. In time, our kind will come again, and the cats will squeal as we wash them into hell. We are determined. We are enraged. We have set our jaws to the killing-task, and our rain will bring the heavens down.
Embrace me, daughter, and rejoice!
Tribal Background
The Ajaba, or werehyenas, are the last of a dying race, an they're determined to survive and return by any means necessary. After centuries of conflict with Bagheera, Swara, Simba and Khan, the "choosers of the slain," as they call themselves, have been reduced to two or three dozen living members. Scattered across the modern world, they're a tribe without a home, a leader or a future. They have no intention of staying that way.
In the distant past, these shapeshifters were respected for their role as trash collectors. Weak and aged creatures, tribal exiles and outlaws were hunted down and eaten, and bad children were lifted from their beds and taken into the night. The Ajaba, not truly catkind at all, were never well-liked, but they served a purpose. Many human tribes called them "rainmakers" for the tears they caused to fall, and they secured their villages against the beasts by lock, spell and spear. Bastet, especially among the Simba prides, took a more active role; if one of their kind was killed by hyenas, the local werecats rushed ino the night and took revenge. This went on for thousands of years; as far as the Ajaba were concerned, the Imperguim never ended. The casualties they suffered in return seemed to be part of the cycle, and kept their own tribe from growing too large. This genocidal war, which worsened as humans expanded beyond their villages, continued until the Simba Black Tooth discovered a terrible secret. Making the most of it, he led his allies against the hyenas until, in 1984, he virtually wiped them off the earth.
After the battle of the Hyena King's court, the surviving Ajaba fled. Those with connections in the human world set up escape routes for their brothers and sisters, who took along a handful of ancestral Kinfolk as they left Africa. In overrun metropolises like Bombay, Calcutta, Los Angeles and Cairo, the Ajaba run in packs, making what allies they can and keeping themselves alive. No hyena can afford to die, so the members of this tribe play a very careful game. To endure, they must propagate as quickly and surely as possible. To that end, many have secured bargains with their spirit father Seb-at-Al -- an incarnation of Cahlash -- and with other denizens of the urban darkness: Bone Gnawers, Ratkin, Nosferatu vampires and far worse. For breeding stock, the most debased raid zoos and grab unsuspecting humans, dragging their future mates into "fosterage dens" in the cities' hidden places, where they breed until they die. In the long run, the ancient rainmakers might leave a legacy more corrupt than their tormentors: a legacy of thievery and shame.
Tribal Home
Although the Ajaba once ranged from India to South Africa, the Serengeti grasslands were considered their tribal home. The Hyena King's court, which fell in '84, was located near Mount Kilimanjaro in modern Kenya. The Simba have locked it off from the survivors, now; a magical ward prevents them from returning for 100 years.
In general, these elusive creatures prefer open countrside to city life. The few who migrated to urban areas saved the race; without their help, the survivors of Black Tooth's massacre would have been picked off eventually. Now the tribe has new courts in the U.S., India and Egypt. Several Bubasti have discovered these refugees, but hope to parlay their location into a big score against their tribal rivals, the Simba. For now, the Ajaba have no home. Soon, they hope, this will change.
Culture and Kinfolk
In the past, werehyenas placed great importance in family ties, ancestry and group identity. They ranged in packs of three to six members and kept their Kinfolk close. Most hunting parties had human, hyena and shapechanger members, and although the Ajaba had the upper hand, the Kinfolk had a say in group activities. Now many of the ancestral bloodlines are cut; the Kin have been slain alongside their cousins. These days, the Ajaba mate with whiomever they can to keep their kind alive -- vagrants, lunatics, even each other. The older members dislike "polluting their blood" with undesirable strains, but this is survival, after all, and the end is all that matters.
Organization
Each Ajaba pack has one leader (usually female), and Aktu, who dictates the group's behavior. Such hunting parties are extended family units with a dominant male and female, lesser members, and "children." The latter include Kinfolk tagging along for a meal or newcomers learning the ropes. Trial by combat and face-down contests often resolve disputes; in kinder years, these Folk preferred wrestling or riddles to open combat, but the Ajaba are a race under siege, and everyone follows orders, or else.
Even so, each Ajaba life is sacred. There are no cousins left to waste, so every measure is taken to protect the pack. Injured cousins are nursed, dissenting ones punished and breeding ones secured until they have raised their kits. Most packs run with a couple of allies, or takuya, who share in the kill. Since the massacre, many takuya have become more sinister; several packs include a Black Spiral Dancer or two, and other contains at least one vampire childe. The average pack has six to ten members now, and each one rides on a hair-trigger temper. The Ajaba are at war with the world these days, and anyone -- especially a werecat -- who crosses their path is treated to new worlds of pain.
Tribal metis have an interesting mutation: they either change genders, or are hermaphrodites. The race has never shared the usual Changing Breed view of metis, and the current crisis only makes them more accepted. Even so, they cannot reproduce. Their bodies are sterile, and this drives them crazy with shame. To make up for the children they cannot have, Ajaba metis adopt a bodyguard role for the fertile members of the pack. No one gets to the others without going through the metis first.
Yava
Each of these secrets has been seized by the Simba; even so, they are not common knowledge -- the lions have cultivated their image of superiority, and insist that the Yava had nothing to do with their success against the hyena-folk.
Each Ajaba has a nick the size of a quarter in the back of her skull. He who strikes this spot will demolish the brain.
Mixing white wine in a hyena's footprint intoxicates the animal who left it. The stronger the drink, the longer its effects will linger.
An Ajaba cannot bear the taste of baby meat; an infant younger than a year of age is always safe.
Appearance
Ajaba may descend from any human racial stock. Regardless of their heritage, werehyenas tend to have large lower jaws, thick teeth, bristly hair, heavy builds, broad shoulders and hoarse voices. They're not the most attractive of cat-folk. These days, most tend to dress in cast-off clothing and carry improvised weapons. Their Kinfolk include gang members, street people, junkyard prophets and urban mongrels. Ragged survivors all, these creature are usually hostile to outsiders and damned hard to kill.
Quote
You've given us your best shot, you goddamned bastards, and we're still around to pick your bones. Somehow I doubt you'll be as hard to kill, and catflesh makes good eatin'!
Stereotypes
Bagheera: Smug chop-lickers who'd stick their nose into a light socket if you told one it'd enlighten him.
Balam: From what I've heard, we might share a common sorrow. I've never met one, so I couldn't tell you if he was as bad as the other cats, better or worse.
Bubasti: Sneaky little shits who sniff mummy farts and call it perfume. I wouldn't trust one as far as I could throw a pyramid, and that ain't too far.
Ceilican: Who? Oh, yeah, they're dead.
Khan: Vicious bastards masquerading as holy fighters. If they had a shred of decency they pretend to they've slaughtered the lions a century ago.
Pumonca: Poo what?
Qualmi: Never heard of 'em, never met one, and never want to.
Simba: Diediediediediediediediedie!!!!
Swara: Fleet-footed cowards who would outrun their own shadows given half a chance. Worse, they hit you from behind and seem to come from nowhere. And they call us craven? Hah!
