Tuskra

  Noun

  Translation: Orc

  Definition: "Tuskra" refers to a race of large and imposing creatures recognized by their tall stature and leathery green skin adorned with prominent tusks. Tuskra are indigenous to the Yellow District in Ormgrund but have since dispersed across the Map following The Great Elven War. These creatures have made considerable efforts to assimilate back into the broader society, to the extent that the Orcish language is nearly extinct—A price willing to pay after enslaving and nearly driving the Tieflings to extinction.

  "Zora, we need to go now!"

  The dark elf turned to find a large figure looming over Orlo, his thick arm clasped tightly around Orlo's neck. The creature's flat nose and leathery green skin identified him unmistakably as an Orc, his size and strength daunting. What was even more unsettling were the six black eyes piercing into her.

  With a desperate look back at Monica, Zora pleaded, "Let him go, please."

  However, Monica's grip on Zora's arm only tightened, immobilizing the dark elf with surprising strength.

  "Why?"

  Orlo's heart raced so fiercely watching the scene that he feared he might pass out, but then golden lines of text, descriptive sentences, and intricate schematics began to illuminate his surroundings. His magic, silent until now, had suddenly and powerfully kicked in, offering perhaps a way out.

  As Orlo's eyes looked on Monica, his magic enhanced his perception, revealing layers of information about her state that baffled him. Small holographic circles materialized around her, each pulsating with streams of data. The first circle showed that her skin temperature was lower than the ambient air, suggesting an unnatural chill typically not found in humans but in corpses. The second circle, hovering around her chest, displayed a flatline where there should have been a heartbeat—it was death, yet she stood there, apparently alive.

  Another circle indicated elevated cortisol levels, a stress hormone, in her bloodstream, which paradoxically shouldn't be active given that her heart was not beating. This contradiction in her physiological readings suggested Monica was somehow alive and dead.

  Struggling to draw breath with the Orc's arm tightening around his neck, Orlo understood that any movement was futile. Trapped in the grasp of his aggressor, he could do nothing but only watch.

  Zora's markers smeared a contrasting picture compared to Monica's. The visual data around her displayed physiological responses that one would expect under stress: her blood circulated quickly, her cortisol levels were elevated but within expected ranges, and her heart rate was high, reflecting the situation they were in.

  However, Orlo was taken aback by the pain percentage indicator, which unexpectedly hovered around her neck instead of her arm, as he would have expected. This discrepancy puzzled him. He delved deeper into the analysis, and upon further examination, Orlo discovered a startling anomaly in Zora's readings—her nervous system activity was abnormally—almost non-existent in terms of responding to physical stimuli.

  It appeared as if Zora was incapable of feeling any physical touch, suggesting either a profound alteration to her physiological state or some form of magical interference that numbed her sensory perceptions.

  "Just kill her!" the Orc behind him shouted, turning off Orlo’s magic.

  "He's right, I'm hungry," Monica added, her grip tightening on Zora as she spoke. "But... I could ask Zvoya to give you a necklace just like mine. We could be together—forever."

  As fear surged through him, Orlo finally attempted to break free from the Orc's grip. He shouted, "They're Nightmares!"

  Zora, frustrated, shouted with sarcasm, "Really? I haven't noticed!"

  "I'm not a Nightmare; I'm perfect!" Monica insisted defensively while she tightened her grip. Six black eyes tore widely in her face. “I am immortal now, just like you!”

  "Monica, you're dead! You smell like death!" Zora shot back, her voice raised as she struggled to free her arm.

  Unexpectedly, Monica released her with confusion evident as she tilted her head inquisitively. "Smell? You can smell now?"

  Listening to their exchange, Orlo realised that his earlier conclusions were correct—Zora was not supposed to feel anything. How?

  "It... it started a few moons ago," Zora admitted, her hand absentmindedly shortening the chain of her sword as she spoke.

  "You didn't say anything... you lied?"

  "Just kill her, Monica! Or I'll do it, and you'll be next," the Orc's voice boomed impatiently, his foul breath brushing against Orlo’s neck.

  Zora remained focused solely on Monica, who approached her slowly. "Monica, if you hurt him, I die… believe me, I will die. The Teacher is innocent. Tell your friend to let us go," Zora pleaded, “You don’t want to hurt me or him, baby, do you? Please, tell him to let him go; I promise I’ll stay, Monica.”

  Monica's eyes shifted between Orlo and Zora, her expression conflicted. "He's not my friend. He's my brother. My oldest brother. I have to obey him, and he said to kill you," she explained while, with a flick of her wrist, a pointy bone spear emerged from her skin. Her intentions were more than clear.

  As Zora maintained her rhythm, spinning her swords to create a protective whirl around her, her mind raced. Each arc of the blades was a calculated dance of defence, though her singular focus on maintaining this barrier left her momentarily blind to other threats. Monica's sudden leap from above caught her off-guard; the attack was a close call, Monica's bone weapon narrowly missing its mark.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Zora's quick reflexes saved her as she twisted away from the sharp bone, her heart pounding with the realization that Monica had become all too familiar with her combat style.

  After all, they had trained together, sharing countless hours of practice and performances that Monica had now turned against her. Zora understood she needed a new strategy, something unpredictable to counter Monica's intimate knowledge of her moves.

  Meanwhile, Orlo struggled against the strength of the Orc. His efforts to escape the creature's clasp proved fruitless, each movement barely making a dent in the Orc's iron grip. Desperation began to set in as he watched Zora fend for herself against Monica's calculated attacks.

  The dynamic on the floor constantly shifted as Monica adapted to each of Zora's defences, each strike aimed with lethal intent. Zora, realizing she could not simply rely on familiar tactics, began to adapt her swordplay, incorporating unexpected feints and lunges that Monica hadn't seen before. Her movements became less about grace and more about unpredictability, hoping to throw Monica off balance.

  As Orlo watched Zora's desperate attempts to recalibrate her style on the fly, inspiration struck.

  "Shorten your chains!" Orlo shouted, but his voice was quickly silenced by the Orc's arm tightening around his neck. Gasping for breath and coughing, he struggled against the suffocating pressure.

  However, it was Zora's sudden cough that stirred something within him—something inexplicable.

  As Orlo felt the rush of magic surge through his body, his wings—previously just faint sheets against his back—exploded outward with impressive force. Crafted from what seemed like golden steel that dazed the Orc. The brute, caught by surprise, stumbled backwards, releasing its grip on Orlo.

  Orlo tumbled to the ground, landing hard. He lay there for a moment, catching his breath, his shirt ripped and his pulse racing. He lifted his arm in front of his face and saw his skin aglow with golden veins that throbbed with a powerful energy he had never experienced before. Each pulse seemed to sync with his racing heart, sending waves of warmth coursing through his body.

  "That's a first," he muttered to himself.

  Orlo pushed himself to his feet. His eyes locked on Zora, who was still engaged in her desperate dance against Monica.

  "Hold on, Zora," he thought, feeling the strength of his wings flexing behind him.

  The Orc rose from the cold ground and lunged towards Orlo at an alarming rate. Zora, sensing the imminent danger, quickly positioned herself between the Lamia and Orlo.

  As the Orc raised his arm to strike, unaware of the deadly threat posed by Zora's blade, she tricked. The chains she had previously shortened were now free at full length, which gave her the needed range as she executed a swift and precise blow.

  One of her blades found its mark, slicing through the Orc's skull from top to bottom. Half of the creature's skull clattered to the ground, followed by its collapsing body into a black pool of its own blood.

  However, before Zora could fully register the outcome of her actions, Monica pinned Orlo down with calculated wickedness, his breath caught in his throat from the pressure of her knee. The cold, hard ground beneath him and Monica's threatening weight holding the bone spear close left him in a dire predicament.

  Having just dispatched the Orc, Zora turned her attention towards the new threat.

  "Monica, let him go!"

  "Why?" she hissed, her grip tightening on Orlo, making him wince in pain.

  Orlo struggled beneath her, the golden veins still pulsing beneath his skin.

  "Zora, step back!" Orlo managed to choke out, not wanting her to come within striking distance of Monica's bone spear.

  Ignoring his plea, Zora came closer, her blades blurred with speed, "If you let him go, I'll stay," she declared, allowing her sword to fall suddenly to the ground in a gesture of surrender.

  "Do you promise?" Monica's tone softened slightly, but her bone continued to tear through Orlo's thigh while he was no longer able to hold back his scream of agony.

  "Please stop!" Zora pleaded, walking slowly toward Monica. “You’re hurting me.”

  "What happens if I don't? I hurt you?" Monica's challenge hung unanswered. With a cruel smirk, she swiftly removed her bone of Orlo's leg, only to plunge it deeper.

  Zora winced as the sound of tearing flesh filled her ears, and she felt a sharp echo of the pain, clutching at her own leg reflexively while the pungent scent of fresh blood permeated the air. Orlo's screams ceased, overwhelmed by the unbearable pain.

  Reacting on pure instinct, Zora seized one of the chains and lashed the blade directly at Monica's neck. The blade detached with a clean cut, her girlfriend’s head, which fell to the ground, rolling away as her body slumped over Orlo.

  Wasting no time, Zora rushed to Orlo's side and shoved Monica's headless body off him. Orlo lay unconscious. His wings transformed into delicate, silk-like sheets enveloping him. Falling to her knees beside him, Zora gently shook his shoulders. "Orlo?" she called softly, hoping for any sign of consciousness, "Orlo, wake up."

  He lay unresponsive, his leg oozing blue and black blood, a troubling sight that filled Zora with more dread. This couldn't be good.

  As the music from the nearby house swelled, a door creaked open, pulling Zora's attention toward the sound. A woman stepped out, cradling a toddler in her arms. Her presence seemed oddly serene against the backdrop of the chaotic scene.

  Zora's eyes darted across the town, her heart sinking as she spotted shrouded figures materializing at the windows. They had not been there mere moments ago, and a chilling realization washed over her—they had stumbled into a nest of Lamias.

  "Ollo, Zora," the woman called out in a lilting voice. She was an alluring elf with flowing purple hair and a necklace identical to Monica's.

  "I guess you are Zvoya," Zora remarked, her tone defiant.

  The elf smirked, a sinister gleam in her eyes. "Smart girl. You would be such a treasure in my collection. Such a pity. Master Xendrix would love you, so... unique. Don’t you agree, Master?" She asked, turning to the child and coaxing him.

  "Are you going to kill me now?" Zora challenged, refusing to show fear.

  "Of course not. We need you... and him," Zvoya replied, gesturing towards Orlo. "If he survives... otherwise, this is a wasted timeline and both of us—me and him—have to start all over again and again."

  The child suddenly giggled, looking at Zora, and clapped his chubby hands.

  "If I were you, I would leave as soon as possible. Your Hexe is dying, and if you don’t hurry soon, he will be one of us, or he will be just… dead—unless you run!" the Nightmare urged, her words dripping with malice. "Go! Run, little lovebird! We won't hunt you... not this time."

  

  As we progress through time, our understanding of Lamias, particularly the phenomenon of black blood contamination, continues to evolve. This peculiar affliction has been the subject of numerous studies, yielding a variety of reactions and results, yet the fundamental mechanics—the how and the why—remain shrouded in mystery. From what has been gathered, the susceptibility to this contamination varies significantly across different species. Elves, for instance, are alarmingly vulnerable; they can become contaminated within mere seconds of exposure. Humans, by contrast, exhibit a slower response, typically taking several days to show signs of infection. This disparity raises intriguing questions about the biological and magical defenses inherent to each species; however, it still doesn't make sense. Interestingly, there have been no confirmed cases of Menschen succumbing to the black blood. Whether this indicates an innate immunity or simply a lack of documentation is unclear. The possibility exists that Menschen have been infected, but without concrete reports, their fate, and whether they have the capability to survive this affliction, remains unknown. What about me? I am the result of medical knowledge or, as my Godmama would say—a bloody miracle.——The Hexe - Book Two by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer