By weaving animal skins with threaded runes and shifting magic, peltmelders are able to create a transformative animal hide that lets them take the shape of the skins last owner. This magic has long been practised by mages across the continent, from the Otterfolk of the Pinelands, to the Walruk of the Blacksand Beaches. By taking the form of beasts, these magicians can hunt, travel, and live untethered by their humanity. Most well known of this family are the Selkies of the Northern Plateaus. For generations, the Selkies have created and maintained magical hides that let them assume the form of a seal, perfect for cutting through the frigid waters of The Blinding Sea. But as the moon waxes in the night sky above, for one night these hunters become the hunted.
Curses, hexes, and other magical transformations have often perplexed me in regards to whether they should be classified alongside more “naturalistic” animals, but the more I study and the more I see, it is apparent that no matter the origin, these creatures truly are beasts, and deserve to be understood as such. As for that origin, there are many legends surrounding the story of the first Whalewalker. As far as the stories I could gather, many of these tales share a similar heart. Long ago, a Selkie magician left to hunt at sunrise. Around his waist, his shimmering pelt caught the morning sunshine, and as he donned the fur he turned from one familiar shape to another. His stomach growled that morning, and swim as he might, his eyes could not spot a single fish in the icy depths. After hours of fruitless search, finally, something swam in the waters just ahead of him. Dappled in the morning sunshine, a beautiful silver seal played among the waves.
Now, his whole life he had been told what all Selkies had been told - another seal is never to be hunted. Not only could that seal be family, but respect should be shown to the beast whose form was stolen by his kin. But the stomach of the Selkie growled, and gripped by hunger, the man inside took over. In a flurry of thrashing limbs, he ripped at her fins with his teeth, tearing at her side, and staining the blue waters a dark red. But you see, this seal he had decided to hunt was no ordinary seal. In fact, the silver seal was The Moon herself, taking an icy swim after a long night shining through the sky.
As the man tasted the moon's blood in his mouth, he felt his body shift, his seal pelt sloughing away, sinking in the cold water. But even with his skin ripped away, he kept changing, his fingers extending, webbing, his mouth widening and nostrils pulled painfully up. The moon fled from the man, swimming to the surface and jumping from the water back up to the sky. He swam after her, and she laughed down at his twisted new form from the heavens. In his mouth he could still taste her, and in his heart all he craved for was to finish his meal.
Now, those afflicted by her curse shift every full moon into the walking whales that hunt for the seal flesh of their kin. Like common lycanthropy, this curse can be spread in the form of a bite, and besides immediate amputation of the affected area, the curse has no known cure. There is most certainly a sympathy for those affected by the curse, and communities across the coast have been destroyed by its unforgiving nature. And those at the heart of such catastrophes live on with the memories of their families cries, the texture of their flesh in their gullet, a life doomed to feel a stranger in their own skin, clicking and whistling at The Moon, forever hungry to taste her blood again
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