This section presented something of a challenge to write. Given that I have been surrounded by my own kind since birth, it is difficult for me to determine what is or is not common sense. Despite how eager those around me can be to point out the ways in which our differences make us superior, they still assume us to live generally similar lives to any other species despite mounting evidence to the contrary. While I consider myself to be open minded, it seems likely that I share many similar blind spots. Additionally, going over every little detail that makes your and my respective races different seems both tedious to write and mind-numbing to read. I think it will be a far more reasonable effort to describe both our physical nature and core cultural touchstones, as those are the areas in which foreigners seem to have the most misunderstandings.
Physical Properties: Based on the reactions of humans arriving in āina Hānau (or the barrier isles, as most know them) for the first time, it seems that many people are under the impression that we are a collection of hulking monstrosities. As amusing as I find this, I feel it to be something that needs to be clarified before going any deeper into our culture.
Size: While our illustrations in human “news papers” show the kālai as towering giants, most of us end up growing to be around eight to eight and a half feet tall. Some will grow to approach nine feet, but that is a lot rarer. That said, we are apparently quite heavy for our sizes due to more dense muscles and proportionally thin bones. Still quite a bit larger than the average human, but I feel like the exaggerations have grown a bit out of hand.
Shells: The shell of a kālai is a mark of pride, as we see such forms as being the ideal. While any visual skin is usually a pinkish red, our shells tend to go in a range from muddy brown to coal black. They form a series of interlocking armored plates, with flesh only being visible in small rings around the eyes, the insides of our legs and arms, and the undersides of our chins. I believe that it is our armored appearance and clawed limbs that have led to a perception of kālai being brutish and warlike. Given the nature of our patron goddess, I cannot help but wonder if there are some inklings of truth in that particular stereotype. For clarification, kālai do indeed molt once a year. Merchants have learned to expect delays during molting season, as we tend to be somewhat non-functional during the month-long period of growth and especially during the week in which the shell must be shed.
Bodies: I have been told many times by foreign merchants that, were it not for our carvings, it would be near impossible to tell one kālai from another. As odd as I found this at first, learning that humans tell each other apart through faces made it a bit more understandable. The differences between individual Kālai are more subtle and form more on the bodies. Men and women are distinct enough, with males having thicker and rounded shells with rough spikes and females being smoother with more angular forms. Without external genitalia or the ability to lactate, it is the shape of the body which needs to be used to distinguish one another. Other differences are in the formation of spikes and shifts and coloration, as those are often unique to the individual. If you ever feel uncomfortable at how thoroughly my kind analyze you upon first meeting, it would be nice to keep in mind that they are not used to being able to tell people apart from the face alone.
Cords: This final detail is less of a damaging misunderstanding, but still feels worth mentioning. Unlike most other hominids, kālai are not mammals and the growths coming out of our heads are not hair. To feel them would tell you that they are far thicker than hair, given that they are more akin to the antennae of an insect. Our senses while underwater are somewhat limited, so we use our cords to detect motion and surrounding currents. While out of water they are mostly decorative, which is why so many women prefer to tie them up. They are never cut, as they are quite sensitive and doing so would be incredibly painful. One last thing that should be mentioned is that one should avoid touching a kālai’s cords without permission. Allowing another to touch your cords is considered a very intimate act, and is usually only permitted to family members and lovers.
Amphibious Adaptations: Though we are shaped similarly to humans, kālai are distinctly evolved to survive both in ocean environments. We cannot breath underwater, but can hold our breaths for multiple hours once fully developed. Our hands have a slight webbing that allows for fast, maneuverable swimming. This has led us to develop an amphibious lifestyle, with most kālai spending more time in the water than on land. It helps that our greatest food source is fish, which makes up the vast majority of our diets. Our adaptations are so ingrained that we had not even thought to invent ships until the first humans arrived. This makes it easy for us to travel between islands, but does raise the concern that traveling outside of āina Hānau has become dependent on human intervention.
Kaha: It feels relevant to discuss the kaha before any other factor of our culture, for it acts as a defining feature of my people. The name kālai is derived from our language’s word for “carved”, which should serve as a good indicator of how much the tradition matters to us. Unlike the tattoos inscribed in the skin of the priests of the Myriad Saints, kaha are made with a knife. Only the exterior layer of a kālai’s shell is dark, with the rest being the same color as our skin. By carving down right to the point where the color shifts to red without causing any pain, you can create all manner of designs. Doing so requires a great amount of precision, which necessitates specialists who are expected to perform carvings for the entire village. My parent was one of such carvers, so I can attest to the sheer amount of practice and care they need to take for their work to be trusted.
As for the designs themselves, they are traditionally both flexible and somewhat restricted. Typically, women are expected to bear designs of flowers and plantlife and men are carved with depictions of the ocean and sea creatures they have slain. You will find individuals who prefer different kinds of designs, but they are rare even in more progressive communities. One’s kaha will disappear during their yearly molting, and are expected to change it up each time they need to be carved once more. There are certain social factors to this, such as it being considered a mark of pride for a man to have made so many remarkable hunts that he must choose which beasts to leave off his body. A kālai’s kaha are deeply personal, and often reflect how they wish to present themselves to the world. The best way to make a good first impression with one would be to compliment their carvings, especially if you can correctly assuage the significance of specific designs.
Clothing: One thing that my kind finds most amusing about humans is how much effort they put into their clothes. As we live in an environment that is warm all year and have no external sexual characteristics, we never developed an in-depth culture in that regard. As far as we are concerned, so long as your crotch is covered there is little need for much else. It is because of this that most men wear little more than a weavegrass ribbon tied around their nether regions. Some do choose to also incorporate woven blankets as well, with women especially preferring to wrap one around their waist as a kind of skirt. The torso is rarely clothed, though women also enjoy wrapping ropes made of dried vines and flowers in purely decorative embellishments. The only time kālai are “fully clothed” as humans so like to request of us is during religious ceremonies. Kinohi demands that all but your chest and face must be covered while performing rituals, so priests often wear loose-fitting robes to appease her. Regardless, a tropical climate makes things like shirts and pants seem rather unnecessary, (though I find myself rather fond of loose pants) which has led to the “vulgar” clothing that my kind prefer.
Villages and Daily Life: Though I have been eager to justify my people’s ways throughout this chapter, I cannot deny that our culture is rather underdeveloped in many ways. We have yet to make wide use of a lot of tools and resources that other cultures have exploited for centuries. I theorize that this is because our bodies are adapted not only for our natural environment but also for combat. We are far stronger and more durable than other hominids and have no difficulty finding food. We simply never faced the same struggles that led to metal tools and stone buildings being invented by others. Metal weapons are a known factor, however, as they are seen as gifts from Kinohi granted to her champions, which may also lend to why my ancestors saw such materials as beyond their ability to forge. Regardless, life in a kālai village is generally far less complex than other hominids would be used to.
Kālai tend to live rather practical lives. On any given day, a household will follow the same general schedule. The husband heads out to go hunting in the ocean, both to catch fish for dinner and to scare away any sea beasts that may harass the village. The wife remains in the village, gathering herbs to prepare for meals and performing maintenance on the home and household. Given that our buildings are wooden structures built over the ocean surface, this maintenance is considered to be a vital role. As for the children, they will usually be left to their own devices. They may eventually take on apprenticeships from either their parents or local specialists, but the idea is that the role of the youth is to experiment and find out what their talents are. Though most people maintain social circles, leisure time for adults is a scarcity and is usually spent with the family. This is slowly changing as more modern conveniences are introduced to our villages, but the focus remains on survival.
Merchants and specialists are the exceptions to the typical schedule, though the former is more of a recent development. Specialists are as they sound, individuals like hut-builders or kaha carvers who are skilled in work that takes a lot of training to be proficient in. They are not paid in money, but instead are provided meals by their clients in exchange for losing out on days of fishing. These people are not a remarkable deviation from the norm and still fit inside traditional culture, which is why the development of a merchant culture is far more interesting to discuss.
The concept of a merchant, traveling or otherwise, was one that was only recently introduced with the first human colony in āina Hānau. The vast influx of both specialty goods and new population led to the lifestyle finally becoming viable. The archipelago contains many resources that either cannot be efficiently cultivated through farms, can be gathered far more easily by kālai, or are simply not viable to gather due to the dangerous wildlife of the area. After developing a proxy system so that the villages could be introduced to currency, a network of trade was quickly developed. Kālai trade away the natural resources of the islands, volcanic minerals, beasts such as luhi, and useful jungle herbs being the most common, for which they receive trade notes. These trade notes are then exchanged for foreign assets such as metal goods or advanced weaponry. This has allowed a variety of new goods to be introduced to kālai culture, which while useful have brought up some concerns.
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In every village, there is one person whose role within it is singular and deeply respected. These kālai are known as alaka’i, and their responsibilities are comparable to that of a ruling lord or mayor. The alaka’i is expected to resolve conflicts, regulate who can leave and enter their village, train the local children in combat, and various other tasks related to running a community. They hold their jobs for most of their lives, only passing the role onto their chosen successor when they are no longer able-bodied enough to perform their duties. Most village folk will simply go along with whatever their alaka’i demands, even if they don’t necessarily agree. After all, their lives are already full with surviving. The alaka’i are provided whatever they may need to survive and thrive, as they have been given the sole responsibility of keeping the village together.
There has been a lot of discussion in this era of how much we should allow ourselves to be influenced by human culture. There are extremists on both sides, with some shunning the very notion of cultural evolution and others going so far as to seek citizenship with the Divine Empire. While most villages take a neutral position as a whole, some have fully closed off their borders and promised violence to any ships that approach. As easy as our lives could become, many worry about losing a crucial connection to our traditional ways of life. The more human tools we adopt, the more influence they may be able to leverage over us. Given humanity’s general disdain for our worship of Kinohi, these concerns may not be entirely unfounded.
Religion: I’ll admit to having a good amount of bias towards this specific subject. I am a pōmaika, someone who was chosen at birth by the patron goddess of my race. This came with various impacts and responsibilities that I have long resented. I will do my best to ignore this resentment and present my people’s faith in an objective manner, but I make no promises. There’s only so kind I can be when reality is how it is.
Kinohi: The origin of the kālai and greater deity of fire, Kinohi is a goddess with a rather tenuous relationship with her creations. She already has a bit of a reputation in the northern continent unrelated to her work on āina Hānau. She was known as Fierna over three thousand years ago, and once ruled over the eastern regions on the continent. Unfortunately for the easterners, Kinohi is a goddess of war at her base nature. The war she waged against the other gods of the area resulted in it being turned into what is now known as the Eastern Barrens. Her exile led her to my homeland, where she transformed the local pāpaka into the kālai. These days she mostly remains idle and allows her creations to do whatever they desire, though she has grown far more active with our recent contact with humanity.
Under normal circumstances, Kinohi is usually dormant inside the central volcano of Lua Pele Nui. The only contact her followers ever receive is indirect, either through rare messages developed by her pomāika or when she causes the volcano to erupt through her awakenings. Because of this, there are few distinct beliefs connected to this faith beyond a reverence for the goddess herself. Some have theorized that this was done intentionally in order to encourage the development of sects that would come into conflict with each other. The actual result was the kālai developing a deep fear for the whims of their god, which takes the form of various festivals and rituals being performed each time she awakens. These occasions are known as Lua’i, and tend to take wildly different forms in each village in which they are performed. At the very least, Kinohi seems to have accepted this outcome and tends to leave her people alone when not forcing trials upon her chosen.
Pōmaika: A few children born in each generation will come into the world bearing the blessings of Kinohi. Each village has their own theories as to what qualifies a child to receive such power, but it is commonly understood that each one will end up becoming a remarkable individual. The blessing takes the form of a heat that emanates from a pōmaika’s body. This is less of a gift and more of a brand that identifies the kālai as belonging to their goddess. It prevents us from feeling all but the most severe of temperatures, and ensures that we will never be beneath anyone’s attention regardless of how much it is desired. The only true benefit seems to be an inordinately powerful core, though that may be a condition to receive the blessing rather than a result of it. A pōmaika is almost guaranteed to be set apart from their peers, whether that be in the form of additional rights and responsibilities or in how they are regarded by mundane folk. Our fates are sealed so tightly it would require a miracle to alter them.
Pō’ele Hakahaka: The dark god, the lord of night, master of hunters, and eternal enemy. Many names have been given to the god of the night sky, though they all lend to his role as the hated rival of the goddess Kinohi. Unlike his fiery counterpart, there seems to be nothing that can satisfy Pō’ele’s fury. All tales can agree that he despises the goddess of fire with all of his heart, and her children as an extension. He has also created a variety of species, all of which are vicious predators that have made the forests and waters of āina Hānau far more dangerous. Strangely enough, there are few tales that consider the dark god to be “evil” as would have been expected from most other faiths. He is instead portrayed as a force of nature that can only be overcome through strength and wit. Many pōmaika have lost their lives challenging his champions or the god himself, sacrificed over generations in order to entertain a goddess of war.
Major Cultures: There are myriad villages dotted throughout the archipelago, so many that I cannot confidently say I am aware of all of them. Most villages act like the city states of the empire, with their own distinct laws and culture. It would be pointless to explain all of them in detail, so I will instead focus on the most well known towns that have set themself apart. These are places that most kālai will know by reputation, and have also left an impact on the human settlers who have come to their islands.
Kālepa: The largest village in the archipelago by a wide margin, Kālepa has become something akin to āina Hānau’s capital in recent years. It was the first to accept trade and settlement with humanity, a testament to its somewhat flexible approach to older traditions. Said traditions are not enforced like they are in other villages, with restrictions due to gender and parentage being nonexistent. Of course, only a small portion of residents have taken advantage of this freedom and there are still plenty of biases around those who go against the grain. The most notable trait around Kālepa is its embracing of merchant culture, now serving as a sort of trade hub between islands. Trade has been consistent enough that the noble house of Walker has established a permanent district of the village, with the first generation of island humans having been born over a decade ago. (around year 597) This has not been an entirely graceful transition, with there being much conflict between the Walker family and the alaka’i, but there are few that see the growth of Kālepa to be a mistake.
Ho’okahi: Sharing the island of Moku Waena with Kālepa, this smaller town is known as the village of historians. The elders of Ho’okahi have meticulously recorded the tales and legends of the kālai since the village’s inception, which has granted them the most comprehensive understanding of our history other than perhaps the goddess herself. There was a time when representatives from villages all across the archipelago would seek this place out in order to trade their people’s stories for insights into the will of Kinohi. This changed around the year 543, when outsiders were forbidden from entering Ho’okahi’s territory. As decreed by the elders of the time, all other villages had deviated from the original ways of the kālai to the point that they could only be considered enemies of the goddess. Nowadays, Ho’okahi serves as a reflection of the old ways, with their strict adherence to tradition considered excessive even by most extremists. As someone who was born here, I can confirm that their enforcement of this way of life is both absolute and incredibly smothering.
Leokū: This is the sole village of Moku Mele, the whistling island. The title comes from the unique stone tunnels that form naturally throughout its dormant volcano. When wind blows through these tunnels, it creates a whistling sound that can be heard from miles away. The culture here has gained a dramatic focus in music, with the people there constructing barriers and partitions in the tunnels so that the whistling may be altered into a harmonic melody. I once traveled here with my parent some years ago, and was given the chance to hear one of their performances played using the island as an instrument. To me, the music sounded more like a high-pitched hurricane, so I suppose it must be an acquired taste. Regardless, the people here are very welcoming and have allowed a human settlement to be built near their home. They claim some connection to a spirit that dwells within the whistling wind, which could grant them great power and influence were it not for their dedication to pacifism. As this community spits in the face of Kinohi on multiple levels, I have gained a certain amount of fondness for it.
Kaiāulu Lino: Built on Moku Kilika, the island of weavegrass, this village is unique due to its culture’s dedication to garment making. The people here are the only kālai I’ve ever met that go around “fully clothed,” wearing elaborate outfits made from multicolored weavegrass. This grass only grows on Moku Kilika, with no one having been able to cultivate it anywhere else. It shifts colors dramatically as it ages, yet maintains an almost silk-like softness. Despite my distaste for such excessive covering, I cannot deny that I have an outfit or two that was traded from this village. This trading was made far easier by the merchant outpost that had been constructed there, allowing the Divine Empire to “occupy” this land and make use of its resources. There has been some discourse of whether they should be permitted to harvest the grass here at the pace that they have been, but it at least seems to be regrowing at a manageable pace. Though the people here do not seem happy about these outsiders, there has yet to be any major conflicts.
Raft Villages: I will preface this section by making it clear that I am uncertain as to whether these villages are real. Their existence is proved only by artifacts and the ruins of odd buildings that wash up on shore every once and a while, and I have yet to see one with my own eyes. It is rumored that some kālai have taken to worshipping the gods of the sea, living in floating villages as a way of proving their faith. All sorts of claims have been made about these people, such as how they are born with gills or can look into the future using the waves as portents. The variance is enough to question their truthfulness on any level, yet the story has been told throughout nearly every island. Whether the “raft people” are real or not, it felt like a shame to not mention this tall tale that has become a permanent aspect of the kālai’s mythos.
