FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Monster Maker

Classifying Delvers

While most Delvers are versatile by their very nature, it can be argued that they fit into one of seven classifications. These classes are determined by their aptitude in one of three fields - Body, Magic and Technology. As few legitimate organizations are willing to sell, lease or license their patented weaponry or spells to Delvers for fear of retribution, Delvers are forced to develop unique techniques that enhance their chosen specializations. These skills of theirs, which can be sorted through their ‘classes’, all have different ‘flavors’ that are unique to the Delver. Two Operators, for instance, would be using skills classified under Technomancy but each they implement them in such vastly different ways that they could be considered a different strand of magic entirely.

To help demystify all of this, former Delvers have come forward and, using the terminology that has been developed since the Age of Delvers began, have shared with the public the seven specializations that Delvers generally fall under.

In the following document, we will examine these at a high level.

The first of them is the Awakened Adept or just the Adept for short. Adepts have a balanced focus in Body and Magic fields but little to no expertise in Technology. Though they can boost their Technological prowess with cybernetic augmentations, this is not their highest priority. Athletically and magically capable, the Adepts are dangerous for their adaptability which is granted by their unique specialized magic known as Prescience. Adepts can look into the future with varying degrees of detail. In combat, they can use this to predict enemy movements and even fire off projectiles to strike at enemies from a ricochet with startling accuracy. Adepts generally act as leaders of Delver teams because of this skill.

Next are the Commanders. Focusing on Body and Technology, Commanders make use of their impressive builds to inspire and intimidate. Though their magical skills may not necessarily be the highest, that should not be a reason to underestimate them as even the newest of Commanders have some modicum of magical skill. They generally focus on supporting their allies from behind and rarely make appearances in the field, usually providing InOps support or tactical oversight. Often times, they can be acting as a secondary Operator. Cybernetic augmentations are common amongst Commanders. Their unique art is their Echo ability. Commanders can often reflect or repeat effects inflicted upon themselves or others onto different targets making them excellent at the mitigation or multiplication of damage.

Operators are a purely Technology-focused Delver. Very rarely seen in the front lines, Operators provide the primary Intelligence Operations (InOps) coverage for any good Delver Team. Capable of hacking into Infospheres, disabling other forms of technology and even disabling cybernetic augmentations, they are deadly from a range but must be protected at all costs. Delvers often say that a Delve is won and lost through InOps. Without proper coverage, a Delve could go poorly simply because there was not sufficient information provided or the team was hacked. Unsurprisingly, Operators focus on Technomancy, a form of magic allowing them to control and command of technology. It should be noted that Operators don’t necessarily have to be connected to a local Infosphere to use their Technomancy to great effect and, in extreme cases, there have been cases of Operators accessing and manipulating machinery despite being on the other side of the planet or Plane.

Rooks are, a their name suggests, physically powerful individuals who are the polar opposites of Operators being solely focused on the Body aspect. Normally intimidating in appearance, Rooks should not be considered merely defensive fighters as their role in a Delve Team is to deal with all physical challenges. Whether that means bearing the brunt of an attack or charging through barricades, it does not matter. Their physical prowess is not to be underestimated. This is further highlighted by their specialized art known as Escalation. Rooks will often choose a particular form of stimulation and draw from that, growing stronger and stronger the more they are exposed to that stimulus. These can be as mundane as taking damage, being exposed to flame or something as arbitrary as fear and even sex.

Scions are the magical equivalent of Rooks and Operators, focusing entirely on Magic. Closer to traditional wizards or sorcerers, Scions are not classified by where they obtain their magical powers since, especially amongst Delvers, magic can be obtained from multiple sources. Scions are generally amongst front-line combatants on the field and should not be considered ‘squishy’ like traditional mages. This is exemplified by their specialized technique known as their Aura. With magic taking many forms and hybrid forms of magic being created every day, it is often important to be able to find ways to counteract or use such energies for yourself. A Scion’s Aura enables them to take energy from their surroundings and convert it into their form of magical energy, something they can understand. This often manifests as a specific field of magic around them, hence the name of the skill ‘Aura’.

Slayers are the Magical and Technology hybrid Delvers who specialize in inflicting as much damage as possible. Though most Slayers often like to perform this in a stealthy manner, this is not necessary to be classified as one. The crux of being a Slayer is dealing damage and death quickly. Often times, the priority in countering Delves is to find the Slayer for being able to track them and identify their skills and abilities is crucial to minimizing damage and losses. That is just how dangerous Slayers are. The unique skill amongst Slayers is known as Critical. This highly specialized skill allows them to identify the weaknesses of an opponent or simply the best way to defeat their foe and optimize the damage to them. While this may seem like a common ability, Slayers take this to another level. Former Slayers describe how their usage of Critical can be used to identify even structural weaknesses, map out blind spots in even the most impregnable fortresses or even utter the right words to unnerve a target. In the most extreme cases, they can tie specific reactions or phenomenon to the exploitation of a target’s vulnerability to the point where even a small pinprick with a needle at the right spot could cause a target to fall to the ground weeping, run away in fear or - in the most extreme cases - explode into a bloody mess.

The last and by far the rarest of Delvers are the Siphons. Utilizing all three aspects of Body, Magic and Technology, Siphons are rare simply because most Delver Teams would much prefer more members that are specialized in a combination of the three aspects as opposed to a generalist. Siphons, nonetheless, are extremely dangerous as they are more adaptive than even the Adept and able to hold their own in most scenarios. Their unique ability known as Transference allows them to take anything from a target be it blood, energy or even something as nebulous as fear and transfer it to someone else. A Siphon could single-handedly change a battlefield by their mere presence.

Naturally, not all Delvers can fit into these seven classes as some may drift along the spectrum of any of them. However, this is how Delvers have been classified to the wider public and is the terminology generally adapted by society as a whole. It helps potential clients to identify the balance or capabilities of a team that they are hiring. Trying to steal information, for instance, from a highly secure Infosphere will require at least one Operator or Commander. Sending a team made completely of Rooks will not suit their needs. Similarly, being able to identify the roles of a Delver Team will assist those trying to thwart a Delve to coordinate and change their defenses as needed.

Chapter 2 - A Problem with Tusks

Morning winds whipped by Theodore ‘Teddy’ Prowler’s cheeks as he drove his Mitsubishi 21.1524 Seraphic Raven through the skies of Sanctuary City. The city had just started to wake up by the time he had left Tyson’s residence but since his brother had insisted on build his residence about an hour and a half from the metropolis even by the fastest of cars, traffic had started to pick up by the time Teddy was forced to adhere to common airspace rules.

Before long, his sleek, black five-seater car was forced to slow its approach and line up in designated flying spaces above the suburbs of Sanctuary City and coast through the sky behind a clunky, red family van. The four, black wings with a feathered motif that stuck out of the car’s sides were forced to fold back against its chassis. There was no need for the increased aerial control and maneuverability those wings and the two tailfins provided when he had to deal with peak hour traffic.

Teddy still kept the driver-side window open, however and leaned an arm out the window. As tedious as driving in a line about half a mile in the air might have been, the flight was still fairly quick and were it not for a few protective spells, he would have suffered from some windsheer especially against his exposed arm. His impatience came from the urgency to return to Pulse’s hideout. He had left it earlier in a rush after the rest of his team managed to pull themselves from the sexual compulsion caused by Albert’s Inscription. Though his team had regained their senses and he had no doubt that they were strong enough to resist any further dalliances, he still worried for them.

Apart from Tyson and his foster father, they were the closest people he had in his life. True friends and, yes, even family. Everyone else had dropped off from his life or he had personally cut off. Consequences of being a Delver sprinkled with a few of his own, personal choices.

“Delvers dive and disappear,” he told himself, repeating the mantra by the famed first Delver, Isiah Frenzy. In a world of powerful corporate armies, ruthless governments, enigmatic magical entities and living gods, Delvers were the key to getting any sort of advantage in the world.

Named the ‘Modern Adventurers’, Delvers were decentralized individuals or small groups that were effectively mercenaries for hire. The difference between them and the classic adventurers of prior ages were that Delvers had a very unique position when it came to the law. Under the Delver’s Agreement agreed globally across all the Planes, no one who hired a Delver would ever be held responsible for that Delver’s actions. That meant that anyone could send a Delver against someone else so long as they could pay. While that didn’t stop Delvers from divulging their employer’s identities upon capture or captors retaliating in some other way - even hiring more Delvers - there were no legal grounds one entity could pursue against another if a Delver was involved. That also meant, however, that there were no laws restricting how to deal with Delvers. It was entirely within someone’s right to threaten a Delver’s family member and hold them hostage to get said Delver’s cooperation in lieu of paying them so long as no harm came to the family themselves. A failed dive could also lead to a shootout where Delvers were killed in action instead of captured.

“We are a lonely bunch,” sighed Teddy.

He took the turn denoted by small, floating orbs of light in the air, leading him away from the suburbs of Sanctuary City and over to what was colloquially known as ‘The Sleeping Suburbs’. While still within the territory of Sanctuary City, the Sleeping Suburbs was a subdivision that still showed signs of old human architecture from several Ages ago. Concrete roads divided buildings. Electricity and magic were still funneled through pipes and tubes underground. Homes were mostly uniform and made of wood or stone instead of more stable materials that could easily channel magic like angelstone or hellsteel. The people living in the Sleeping Suburbs still used aerial vehicles to get to work and benefited from most modern amenities but the remnants of the old world just proved too expensive and difficult to change.

It was also in the Sleeping Suburbs that Pulse had its hideout.

Teddy flew his Raven lower as the long tarmac came into view. Enormous warehouses that once housed enormous aerial buses now were overcrowded with abandoned planes from every use from commercial, private, military and even experimental. There were even two space shuttles that Teddy affectionately called ‘Apollo’ and ‘Allen’. Multiple terminals that saw thousands upon thousands of people come and go every day now lay abandoned with the rows upon rows of empty plastic chairs basking in the lonely light of the dawn light. The lone control tower overlooking the runway stood a silent vigil across the vast, abandoned airport.

He parked his car near the base of the control tower and stepped out into the chilly morning. Stories of how such places were once vital arterials for international transport dragged him into a distant fantasy of these tarmacs filled with people, luggage and those aerial behemoths. Reality soon caused those images to fade again as the steady line of airborne vehicles cut a steady line through the sky, a black line bisecting the blue from the gray of the dawn.

Why would anyone ever need to take an airplane when you could take your family in your car and cross the Pacific Ocean in less than three hours on cruising speed or pay to take an express gate and be in Australia in a minute? Not to mention planes couldn’t cross the boundaries between realms.

Teddy turned towards the control tower doors, his crimson coat billowing out behind him. The heavy iron door was protected by wards and maintained by an isolated network. That made it difficult to hack or break through without the proper permissions. All he had to do was wave his hand in front of the door, the mark of a snarling feline’s head on his palm appearing briefly and glowing a iridescent white before vanishing. The wards dropped and a loud click announced that he was allowed to enter.

A quick jog up a short flight of stairs and he was about a quarter of the way up the tower where they kept their armory and Miri’s workshop. The smell of oil, grease and sizzling metal was persistent in the air. One wall was lined with six lockers - one for each member of Pulse and the last spare one for Tyson who had a standing invitation to join the team. Multiple panels streaming with data hung on another wall, computing calculations that would have made Teddy’s mind spin. At the very center of the room was a workbench with some scattered tools and components.

It was with some relief that he noted Miri was present, currently soaking in a large, square, metal tub of a thick, rust red, oily substance - recovery nanites. Her slim, humanoid figure clicked and clacked loudly as the various exposed gears, wires and hydraulics that formed the Ironborne’s physical form soaked in the semi-solid fluids and repaired her body.

“You plat in there, Miri?” Teddy asked, padding over to his locker and took off his sidearm - a Falcon PDP 45. The lightweight, accurate, silvery pistol sat easily amongst his other equipment including his favorite BT54 in the locker.

“Going gold,” Meriwether Iconia Rubuthese Illiam responded in her soft, feminine tone with the metallic twang that was common amongst Ironborne. She had removed her exterior chassis including the metal mask that she normally wore on their Delves so he could see her metallic lips move as she spoke. “Just mending. Cole runs hot.”

Teddy snickered. “Coth. Hexin’ Lava Elementals.”

She let out a noncommittal hum and rested her head back against the metallic holsters for her neck on the tub. “Did Typhon say anything about our sub’s condition?”

Most of what his brother had said about Albert had gone over his head. While he had excelled in school, the intricacies of soul dynamics was lost on him. “Pretty much what Nya said about the array. It was messy. Seemed amateurish and hastily put together. As for Albert…” Teddy shrugged and peeled off his coat, stuffing it into his locker. This revealed his broad, muscled arms with a few old scars criss crossing his biceps and the black and silver breastplate he wore. “… I left him with Tyson so our soul expert can look into him a little more.”

“I would’ve thought you would’ve gone to your father for that kind of advice.”

Teddy shut his locker and moved past Miri’s workbench to the stairs leading up to the next floor. “My dad is good as getting people to feel good about their souls. He doesn’t go deal with their bodies. Albert’s body was hexed.”

Again, Miri just provided a little hum of acknowledgment before slumping into her restorative bath. Teddy left her to her recovery and headed up to the next floor, about halfway up the tower. This was dedicated to the gym and was where Cole made his personal space. At the moment, the team’s Rook was lying on his back on the bench press, huffing and shooting acrid, sulfuric smoke from his slit-like nostrils.

The huge, muscular Lava Elemental was naturally naked. When he was running hot, most clothing couldn’t stand against him. His shiny, obsidian skin positively sizzled and his burning, orange veins bulged against his immense muscles. Many would look upon him and compare him to a gargantuan, overly muscular humanoid statue made completely out of shiny, mirror-like black rock. As with most Elementals, his genitals were internalized and where a cock and balls would be on a human or Orc, there was instead a clear, circular disk… or there should be one if Cole wasn’t painfully erect. The Elemental’s blazing, orange cock made of pure magma was sticking out of his ‘port’, the pointed tip a bright red and oozing with heated precum. Thankfully, Cole had the foresight to set up some protective gear around him and the equipment. Miri had complained enough times of magma seeping down from the upper floors and hitting her or her delicate computers while she was working.

“You still worked up there, Cole?”

Cole grunted. “Yeah. Spot me, would ya? Almost finished with this set.”

With a shrug, Teddy quickly threw together a protective heat resistance spell. The motion was extremely practiced. With one finger, he traced the runes onto his chest where they glowed and sent a soft, cooling wave throughout his body. Being his oldest friend and the only one who had stuck by him since high school, Teddy had memorized all the spells he needed to protect himself from just being near Cole like it was a second language.

He stood over the much bigger, much more muscular Lava Elemental, admiring the smooth, sculpted, pure-black muscles on the man and how every line of muscle was outlined by glowing orange lines. Similar lines denoting the Elemental’s veins pulsed with every movement. Teddy gently allowed his hands to hover under the bar that Cole was pumping. The heat from the Elemental was strong enough that even with his protective wards, Teddy could still feel it like he was standing in front of an oven that was blazing at four hundred degrees.

Cole pumped out two more reps before racking the bar. Thankfully the bar was forged in the Living World so it could take his heat. The Elemental let out a loud grunt and sat up. There was a bottle of a special liquid magic coolant sitting beside him which he quickly downed. The air sizzled as the Elemental began to cool. His erection, however, remained painfully in sight.

“Fuck,” Cole grunted. “That dude left me feeling so hexing pent up!”

Teddy smirked and crossed his arms. “I would’ve thought Ben’s goblin dick would have at least made you cum.”

“If he had kept fucking me for two seconds, maybe. But then there was Miri’s oil and the bastard starting running around screaming that his cock was on fire.”

The image made him giggle. That would not stop being funny for at least a week. Ruben would be pissed about it for twice as long.

“So you didn’t get to cum?”

“Hex no!” barked Cole. “The tower would’ve caught on fire if we didn’t stop. Thank fuck Nya knew some spells.”

“I helped too. I got the fire extinguisher.”

“Lot of hexing help that did,” Cole said with a cheeky grin. “So what do you say you help me with this? Just like in college?” He pointed at his cock, still dripping with superheated precum.

Teddy rolled his eyes and started heading for the stairs. “You know I’d do anything for you, man. Wouldn’t be the first time I sucked your hot cock. But that’s your problem. I’m going to check on the others.”

“Better you mouth than some stranger’s pussy!” barked Cole after him. “Bros know what bros like!”

“Bros know what bros like,” echoed Teddy, laughing as he reached the third floor which was dedicated to Ruben.

As the Slayer of Pulse, the Goblin had a wide variety of implements in cases around his room. Exotic weapons and tools from various hunts and targets. There was a broad, circular table at the center of the room where they would plan their Delves. Ruben preferred to sleep in a hammock perched close to the ceiling and in the shadows, making it hard to spot him if he were actually sleeping. There were also various discs with arcane runes carved into them stacked in a pile off to the corner - Ruben’s various summoning plates for the pets could call upon for extra aid.

The Goblin was poring over some documents on the ‘war table’ as they liked to call it, one hand running across the lines of the epitaphs they had recovered and the other holding an ice pack against his crotch.

“Did Nya not heal your burns completely?” Teddy asked.

Ruben, who had been lost in his investigation, jumped. There was a flash of something silvery that flew by Teddy’s head. The leader of Pulse and the dedicated Awakened Adept didn’t flinch. This wouldn’t be the first time he had surprised Ruben and nearly been skewered by a knife. By now, he had gotten used to it and trusted the Goblin enough to miss.

“Fucking hell, Teddy,” sighed Ruben, slumping in his seat. “How many times have I told you to shout when you’re coming up the stairs.”

“I shouted ‘bros know what bros like’ on my way up.”

The Goblin rolled his eyes and pulled a stray, curly, brown hair from his face. “Come over here. I found something weird in these GHM taphs.” As Teddy moved over, Ruben added, “And for the record, Nya did fully heal my burns. Doesn’t get rid of the trauma. I still feel my cock burning.”

Biting back a comment about the burning sensation possibly coming from a disease the sexually prolific Goblin may have contracted, Teddy instead asked, “What did you find?”

Ruben handed him one of the thick, gelatinous panels that was about as big as a regular page. Most epitaphs were encoded to their owners so not just anyone could open them but with a bit of hacking from Miri and Ruben, they could crack the security and access everything from the applications, personal history and habits of the owner. This epitaph, however…

“It’s been wiped.”

“Exactly,” Ruben agreed. “I don’t know very many cults that have the technical or magical talent to wipe a standard issue epitaph Apple iTaph 25 Pro Max and keep in from degrading.”

Teddy held out the soft, semi-solid panel in his hand and flipped it over before flipping it back. The device’s surface rippled against his fingers but didn’t wiggle or jiggle as one would expect anything that was even remotely gelatinous. Only once a significant force struck it would it’s non-Newtonian properties kick in to keep it from breaking. “This is a Pro Max? And the 25? Damn… That’s new.”

“Got that right, cotza,” Ruben said, gesturing at the two other epitaphs they had recovered. “A wiped taph would just dissolve back into biodegradable materials. But these were new, locked and wiped clean.”

That added an interesting twist to this case.

“That’s some serious omnis…”

“One of the taphs could easily go for a thousand and a half omnidollars. Wiping them and just toss them around…” Ruben scratched one of his large, pointed ears. “Either they have contacts that can get them this shit, they stole it from somewhere or…”

“Someone with some serious cash is backing them.” Teddy handed the slate back to Ruben. “Could you get anything off them? Anything about the original users? No tracing their encryption keys?”

Ruben shook his head sadly, the four-foot Goblin slumping against his seat. “I tried everything I knew. Magical tracing, scans and even tried checking the Dark Web for the model ID thinking that maybe they got these off the black market. Nothing.” Waving a hand towards the three devices, he concluded with, “Best I can tell, each of these devices were bought legitimately from Apple but either never configured with standard applications or wiped at a later.”

“Maybe look into seeing if you can find where the models were sold?”

“Tried, my cotza. First thing I did. They’re all over the west coast.” Ruben pointed at the device Teddy had just handed him. “This came from California. A San Fransisco store.” Then he pointed at one of the other ones. “That came from Arizona. The last came from Seattle.”

“Same general area at least…” mumbled Teddy. “Guess that’s a dead end.” He patted Ruben’s back. “Get some rest, it’s been a long night.”

Ruben lifted his arms above his head and stretched, grunting softly. “I might just do that. Maybe I’ll be inspired in my dreams.”

Leaving the Goblin to scamper up to his hidden hammock, Teddy headed up the steps to the top floor of the control tower. Once, it had been the hub for controlling and coordinating airplanes in the immediate airspace. Now, the windows that once provided a panoramic view of the airfield were blocked by tall bookshelves filled with arcane tomes. Consoles with complicated machinery and algorithms had been cleared out in favor of various shelves stacked with magical devices in an organized manner. Lanterns containing an eerie blue flame hung in the air. There was a distinct humidity in the air with a lingering scent of the sea clinging leaving a slight tingle in Teddy’s nostrils.

Nya the Siren drifted across his vision, gliding from bookshelf to bookshelf like she was swimming through the air. She was fully clothed in her more casual clothes - robes of white and blue. Her seaweed-like hair was tied back in a ponytail; a clear indication that she was in her ‘serious mode’.

“Knock knock,” he greeted, rapping his knuckles on a nearby bookshelf. “Just checking up on you, Nya. You zaz?”

“I am not,” came the terse but curt response. She did not turn to face him as she pulled a book from the shelf and began to leaf through it. “I have never seen or heard of a spell that could instantly remove someone’s inhibitions the minute they touch something that has been washed by an individual.” She pressed a few fingers against her temples like she was pushing away an oncoming migraine. “It’s just… just a ridiculous premise! Needlessly complicated. It’s something that’s more fitting an action-comedy B-movie than reality!”

“Huh?”

The Siren snapped the book shut and threw him an exasperated look over her shoulder. “You know. A stupid plot to incriminate or embarrass a bad guy. The protagonists sneak in, disguised as dishwashers or someone doing the laundry. They wash the big-bad-evil-guy’s articles and give it back fully expecting that making the villain act like a sex-crazed loon will meet their objective. But they fail to realize that there are other articles of clothing or dishes they washed so they inadvertently trigger an orgy.” Holding up two fingers before turning back to her shelves, she said, “And that’s just act two of the terrible movie. Act three would start with their commanding officers chastising them for such a harebrained scheme and then the eventual redemption arc.”

Folding his arms as was his habit, Teddy chuckled and said, “You do love your movie references.”

“Theater is universal,” she said in a huff, drifting to another shelf. “My point stands though. I don’t understand why anyone would make such a stupid… What did Albert call it?”

“An Inscription.”

“Right.” Her fingers glided across the spines of multiple books. “I’ve never heard of an ‘Inscription’ either. It’s an entirely new concept to me.”

“One used for corporate terrorism,” Teddy rumbled. “I just spoke to Ruben and we think that those epitaphs we found are pretty pricey. Doesn’t make sense for a small cult to have them. We think that there could be someone funding them.”

For a moment, Nya paused and looked over her shoulder again at him. “Not all cults are the type that would demand you donate everything to them, you know. Some cults recruit normal people who have normal jobs, seemingly normal families before…”

Teddy felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck and he rolled his broad shoulders to brush it away. “Right. Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up…”

“You didn’t. The association is still there even though it’s been years.” She turned to face him, gliding over. “One of the reasons I want to find out and stop this so-called ‘Green Hand Movement’. They call themselves a ‘cult’ but, to me, they sound more like a terrorist group trying to draw on sympathy and federal protections around religious worship to avoid facing the repercussions of their actions.”

Teddy tilted his head to the side. “Let’s review exactly what they’ve done.” Holding up a finger and counting the points, he said, “Firstly, they have raised a stink about Harrow.”

The Siren rolled her eyes. When Nya rolled her eyes, she rolled her entire head with it so it was very evident when she was exasperated. “They have taken a stance against the modern standard and expectation of beauty of Orcs. They posit that Orcs draw their ancestry from the Savage Lands. That Orcs should be these brutish, primitive nomads that live off the land, have permanent haunches and rippling physiques.” She jabbed a finger through the air. “No Orc can ever draw their direct ancestry from the Savage Lands except for recent Ages where there was open migration. They are a branching evolutionary chain from humanity with some elemental influence from the Living World.”

“Right,” Teddy confirmed, raising another finger. “But they never attacked anyone, right?”

“Until they started targeting Casey Harrows.”

“All because they take offense to his dental practice catering especially to Orcs and his campaign to promote tusk extensions. Procedures that he developed and offers at a premium.”

Say what you will about the predatory capitalism in the Central Material Plane Teddy was of the opinion that if men like Casey Harrows developed a revolutionary technique to apply protective ivory to an Orc’s tusks and extend its length, they should get paid for it. Sure, the ads he ran may have gone viral and could convince young Orcs that having bigger tusks somehow made them more attractive but that was his prerogative. It wasn’t like he was going around forcing Orcs to pay him to extend their tusks.

“Lastly,” Teddy surmised, holding up a third finger, “GHM allegedly kidnapped Albert Tien, a lowly janitor working for Casey Harrows and inflicted him with an Inscription.”

“Allegedly?” Nya repeated, lifting one scaly eyebrow. “You don’t think GHM is actually behind this?”

“Think about it,” responded Teddy. “Expensive equipment that is just tossed aside? Magical experiments that inflict a kind of unique affliction that we’ve never seen before? None of their past actions aligning with this act of terrorism?” He lowered his hand and folded his arms again. “To me, it sounds like someone else is trying to pin the blame on a relatively peaceful protest group.”

Nya pursed her lips and moved it from the left to the right like she was mulling over a taste. “That would make more sense.” Her bright, green eyes rose to meet Teddy’s. “You think it could be a rival company to Harrow? Maybe trying to dethrone him as the ‘King of Orcish Dental Hygiene’?”

He shrugged. “Maybe or it’s Harrow himself trying to use us to get rid of a thron in his side and knowing that unless GHM actually does something illegal - like kidnapping or involuntary soul manipulation - he can’t do shit against them. Either way, I think it’s worth visiting him.”

As Teddy reached this conclusion, a light buzzing came from his pocket. He flicked out his Nebula and was surprised to find that it was a call from his adoptive father, Banchomyon. Nya nodded at him, indicating that their conversation was over and the Siren swam back to her books. Glad to see that she was safe and unfazed by the sudden bout of uninhibited sex that Albert had inflicted upon them, Teddy turned and started heading back down the steps, phone to his ear.

“Hey dad,” he greeted. “What’s up?”

“Teddy,” Banchomyon began, a sense of urgency in his voice. “Your brother is here with me. He told me that you dropped off a rescue from one of your Delves? A human whose soul had been tampered with and was afflicted with a cruse that was slowly turning him into an Orc?”

A little bit of worry started creeping into his voice. “Yeah…? Why?”

“You need to come to my office right away.”

“Okay… but why?”

“Because, Teddy, they’re now both Orcs.”

?

A small portrait of a demon and his two adoptive, adult sons stared accusingly at Tyson.

The broad, open waiting room with sky-blue walls, a cooling, calm, seafoam-green carpet and plenty of natural light from the skylight was meant to encourage serenity and peace. Indoor plants were placed in every corner and there was even some Fae ferns hanging in pots from the ceiling radiating small, blue orbs of light that gave off a soothing, natural aesthetic. Three screens were positioned hanging from the ceiling at different parts of the room showing some slap-stick comedy show. Even the Zombie receptionist positioned behind her large, curved desk quietly tapping away at her console couldn’t take away from the overall calm of the room.

But that damn portrait.

Looking at it just reminded Tyson of how much he had fucked up. There he stood, a mighty, four-armed demon lion, clutching a football happily in his lower arms while one of his upper arms was wrapped gently clasped around Teddy’s shoulder. The other was wrapped around his father, Banchomyon’s broad shoulders. It was a picture taken while they were out on holiday in the Heavens about three years ago.

Now he sat here, barely fitting into his clothes, with green skin and absently picking at his tusks because he was not used to his newly acquired underbite. Albert - or ‘Bert’ as he now went by - was more than comfortable in his new body but treated it with a sense of awe. The large, half-Orc, half-Satyr, sat beside Tyson absently flexing a bicep through the borrowed clothes and was poking the bicep, giggling at how hard he could get it. Bert would occasionally lick his lips and fondle his sizable junk through the jeans Tyson had somehow managed to get him to wear. That absolute python of a member snaked down one pant leg and left nothing to the imagination.

There was no denying that Bert was hot. Orc-Satyr hybrids were not uncommon but sitting so close to one, their shoulders brushing against one another, had a sort of exotic eroticism to it. Tyson had never slept with or treated such a hybrid before. Professional curiosity made him question what the structure of such an individual’s soul would be and if there would be any sort of disparity between the two wildly different species and cultures. On a more primal level, Tyson wondering what Bert’s muscular frame would taste like and what it would be like to be in him.

“Ahem.”

Tyson tore his gaze away from Bert up to the receptionist, the white-haired, stern-looking Zombie who had been his father’s assistant since as far back as he could remember. Zaria Ulthwe gave him a piercing stare from behind her red, bedazzled, horn-rimmed glasses. Her hair was tied back in a strict bun giving her the look of a librarian hushing noisy kids. Like most other Zombies, her skin was a pale blue and her eyes glowed with an eerie, greenish glow behind her irises. On the surface, she would have appeared to be a young, twenty-something human with an unnatural complexion. A large bust and wide hips would have made her attractive to most heterosexual men, some lesbian women and even make homosexual men give out a two-syllable ‘damn’. The tight, navy blue pants suit she wore gave her the ‘professional working woman’ vibe.

Someone tapped Tyson’s right shoulder and he turned immediately in the direction. One of his red eyebrows rose when he saw a detached, blue-skinned hand with painted, black nails perched on his shoulder. The hand suddenly sprang up as if held up by magic giving him enough time to catch sight of the wriggling, white nerves that gave it locomotion.

Smack!

His cheek stung from the impact. His hand went up to his cheek just as Zaria’s hand scrambled across the floor on its fingers. The Zombie was off her desk and striding towards him. She held out her right arm that was missing its hand. That same hand scrambled up her supple legs and attached itself back to her wrist, the serpent-like nerves reattaching themselves to her body.

The physiology of Zombies never ceased to amaze him.

“Hardly a professional way of treating one of your boss’s patients,” he grumbled. “Let alone his son.”

Zaria was holding an epitaph in one hand and used it to point to Bert who was now happily bouncing his pectorals, tongue sticking out and with a blissful look on his face. “He is the patient.” She then directed the folder at him. “You’re the fuck up that just so happens to be my boss’s son.”

“Hey…”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” she accused, hands on her hips. Without waiting for a reply, she shoved the data slate into his hands. “This is all that I could find about Albert Tien. No prior convictions that would have put him on some sort of criminal soul registry. I got in contact with his PCP and the guy was pretty much healthy.”

“Pretty much healthy?” he repeated, scrolling through the Jell-O-like tablet in his enormous hands.

“Some minor concerns about his respiratory health from being around cleaning chemicals and spells all day but that’s about it.” She eyed the hybrid beside him. “And he was human. 100%, plain as vanilla human.”

Tyson gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment as he browsed Albert’s medical records. Technically, what he was doing was illegal. While Albert Tien had given him verbal consent to be his Shaper, none of that was recorded in any official systems. Then again, Albert was also not recorded to have been collateral damage as part of a Delve. Lying about where he got the information wouldn’t be too hard since Delvers had some level of immunity from accountability. Zaria would be considered non-complicit and so would his father. Assuming, that is, Teddy hadn’t closed the case but from what he recalled, the gig for Casey Harrows was an ongoing one.

With no one else in the waiting room, the receptionist parked herself beside Tyson and slouched forward, hands clasped together. “What kind of shit have you gotten yourself into this time, Tyson?”

He glanced at her from the corner of his vision, noticing a little bulge of movement in her left cheek. She was clearly agitated if the living neural network threatened the integrity of the flesh she wore.

“Teddy,” was all he had to say.

“Of course it’s Teddy,” she sighed, running a hand down her face. “What? Did he have some sort of cursed artifact that turned you into Orcs? Strange chemical compound he lifted from some pharmaceutical company? Piss off a god?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. A cult is as much as I know. Ever heard of GHM? The Green Hand Movement?”

A soft grunt came from his other side and he quickly glanced over to Bert. Perhaps mention of the group that had inflicted Albert with this curse would bring some semblance of the janitor out from this green-skinned himbo shell. Instead, he found the hybrid had discovered that nipples were an erogenous zone. He swatted away Bert hands away from those perky nubs poking out of his white shirt.

“Awww…” Bert sulked.

“Aren’t they some sort of cult that’s in the news lately?” asked Zaria. “Some rich orthodontist raised a stink about them for spreading misinformation about his practices or something.” Another nerve bulged just under her skin around her neck. “Weird that a cult would be interested in what a dentist is doing.”

“Good point,” Tyson admitted. “A cult suggests some sort of religious practice, not political. I’m not even sure what GHM believes in but their beef with Casey Harrows comes down to the fact that Harrow is promoting more modern standards of beauty especially in relation to Orcs. They’ve accused him of warping the minds of young Orcs to have these unrealistic standards of beauty and then selling the very same services to make them reach those standards.”

Zaria crossed her arms behind her head and tilted it away from him. “Sounds just like typical predatory capitalism to me.”

“Agreed. I suppose it doesn’t help that he’s created this revolutionary tusk-extension procedure and is basically the only one that has the expertise to provide it. He’s patented the procedure as well so if any Orc out there wants to have their tusks extended, in some way, they’re paying him.”

She gave him a side-eye and a smirk. “Does that include you?”

He scowled at her and poked his own tusks which barely made it past his upper lip. “As far as I’m concerned, the smaller these are the better. If I can get back to my usual leonine form, even better. It took me an hour to stop lisping because of these damn things.”

“You might have to get used to being an Orc,” she taunted. “You came to the office of one the city’s best experts in soul disparity. Doctor Banchomyon isn’t going to turn you back. He’s just going to make sure your soul fits your body so you don’t start going into animanecrosis. You’re the expert in shaping bodies to fit souls.”

“He’s also the one that gave me my demonic body and performed animaregensis on me. The way I see it, the simplest way to get me back in my fur and fangs is to do that again.”

Zaria snorted and rolled her eyes. “Sure, if you’ve got the cash for it. You have any idea how much that procedure costs?”

“Of course I do!” he barked back, finally looking up from the slate and glaring at her. “But it’s better to lose an arm and a leg than damage my soul irreversibly because I’m…” He gestured at his body barely contained in the white tank top and denim shorts. “… this!”

The Zombie’s expression softened and she reached over, gently gripping his shoulder. “You know he’s not going to let you do that. He’ll do his best to help you. But his specialization is making sure all your parts are working in harmony. You might have to prepare for the eventuality that you’ll be stuck as an Orc and the best thing you can do is live with it so you don’t start degrading.”

Tyson’s shoulders slumped in defeat. As much as he hated to admit it, Zaria was right. Forced transformation was extremely illegal in all Planes with very few exceptions for a reason. Souls were an essential commodity and the loss of one especially to animanecrosis was a tragedy in any respect. Those kinds of souls were just gone. Considered useless. The best anyone could do was surgically remove that part of the soul and hope no further disparity occurred that could cause a reemergence or do what Tyson did - transform the body to match, cope and accept the condition and put the disease in stasis.

A soft beeping came from Zaria’s desk and she quickly hurried over to her console. With a nod, she looked towards Tyson, her expression unreadable.

“He’ll see you two now.”

A pit formed in Tyson’s stomach. Knots twisted his guts and caused butterflies to flutter about against the walls of his diaphragm. A roiling tumult that made him simultaneously vomit and double over clutching his gut in agony. His throat closed up and a dry, fuzzy feeling prickled at his tongue. The long, lone hallway leading directly to Banchomyon’s office seemed to extend to eternity.

Despite the horrible sensation, he let out a short laugh and rose to his feet. It had been a while since he had felt the anxiety that came with the dread of facing the consequences of his actions. Not since he was young and he fretted over the pending judgment of his biological parents for one misdeed or another. Dread, as best he could describe it. The last time he had truly felt fearful was on his eighteenth birthday when there was still a sliver of doubt in his mind about Banchomyon’s intentions. The years since then had banished any uncertainties he ever had about his foster father.

That was the primary reason he was able to gently grasp Bert’s hairy hand and guide him towards the door with confident steps. He knew his father loved him. Old adages and racisms might claim demons were incapable of love and if that were true, at the very least he trusted Banchomyon with his life. Worst case, he still technically belonged to the demon.

Once he approached the door, he took a deep breath and grasped the handle, pushing it open. The office that greeted him was one he was quite familiar with. There was no desk where Banchomyon could loom ominously behind. No wall of accolades or certifications to boast about qualifications.

The wall to his left consisted entirely of floor-to-ceiling windows that showed the vast metropolis that was Sanctuary City. Towering monoliths of industry and corporate capitalism where steel and glass spires interrupted the skyline and horizon but still allowed brilliant, warming, golden light to stream into the office. A steady line of cars zoomed by, 5hovering along one of the many aerial lanes that were prevalent this close to the ground at almost three hundred feet from the first floor.

The rear wall consisted entirely out of a hydroponic garden. Leaves from different forms of tea from all the Planes grew all over the wall. Each one was meticulously maintained and cared for by the office’s resident. He had just arrived for a new watering cycle to trigger. Amidst the gentle sounds of the rain forest, the gentle trickle of water from the carefully hidden sprinkler system fit in perfectly.

To his right was a white wall that had the black outlines of an adult coloring piece. It currently depicted a mighty Orc standing on a half-sunken crow’s nest of some ancient, wooden ship, holding up an old, American flag and dressed in the uniform of the American Liberation Conference. There were other soldiers of various races around him but the Orc was clearly the focus.

A little smile touched Tyson’s lips as he guided Albert over to one of the two, cushioned seats presented at the center of the room, both of them facing the lone armchair.

“You chose Heralbrand’s Fording the Mississippi for your wall.”

His foster father returned the slight smile from across his tiger-like features. “One of the most influential events led solely by an Orc in the history of the former United States of America,” answered Banchomyon. “I felt it appropriate considering the circumstances.” He gestured towards the seats. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

Tyson made sure that Bert was fully seated first before he took up the other chair. There was barely ten feet separating him and his foster father. At the moment, however, it felt like they were miles apart. He was no longer a demon meeting Banchomyon’s gaze and matching his stature. His presence was severely diminished and his foster father’s intimidating appearance didn’t help matters.

Despite everything Banchomyon did to try and make himself more approachable, a demon as old as he held a particular aura about him. Call it reputation or the weight of his soul, the tiger demon filled the room with his presence. Here, in this office meant to reconcile the differences between the physical and metaphysical, Banchomyon was king.

This was his domain.

His orange fur was always well-styled, conditioned and sleek, maintaining that gentle gradient of deep red at the extremities to a warm orange closer to his chest, a soft yellow and finally into a fluffy white on his chest with gray tiger stripes breaking the transition. The entire motif always reminded Tyson of a sunset with little, gray clouds here and there.

A pair of half-moon glasses that the feline demon didn’t need sat on the bridge of his short muzzle, only accentuating his golden irises. Two large fangs jutted out from his upper lip, following the natural curve of his muzzle and ending in sharp points just past his chin. A third eye sat in the middle of his forehead, tilted on its side and staring at the two unblinkingly just beneath a single, curved, alabaster horn that looked like the blade of a scimitar sticking out of his head. Smooth, blond hair occupied the spaces between his rounded ears, slicked back and tumbling down his shoulders. Four, large, black, webbed wings were currently folded against his body. They wrapped around his wide, muscular shoulders mirroring a cloak.

Standing at well past seven feet tall, the powerful demon had a godly build. Centuries old and Banchomyon still worked out a the gym and ensured that he flexed both his physical and magical muscles constantly. This was evident by the gentle glow of the fiery red runes that shimmered down his arms even through the red blazer jacket that he wore, a jacket that was forced to remain open as his wide and defined pectorals would not allow it to be closed. The white collared shirt he wore couldn’t even button past his top abdominal muscles for the same reason. The crimson slacks that he wore could barely contain his enormous thighs and the shimmering runes running down them were perfectly aligned with the contours of his quads and calves. Bare, clawed feet sat comfortably across the carpet, each one immense even when considering the proportions of his size. That naturally brought to question the demonic package which bulged out between his legs like a balloon ready to pop.

As if to break the image of the demon’s intimidating presence, Banchomyon wore an awful, sky-blue tie that hung loosely around his neck. Little, bright yellow, cartoonish lion cubs were in various states of play all up the silky fabric. Tyson had to keep himself from groaning at the sight of that tie. His foster father would always reference it whenever speaking to him fondly because he was Banchomyon’s ‘little lion cub’.

“You’re hot,” Bert drooled.

Tyson flinched, froze and then immediately ducked his head in embarrassment. Without looking, he reached out, grabbed Bert’s hand and made sure his charge didn’t go up and molest his father.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “He’s… I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

Banchomyon tilted his head to the side, appraising Bert. His rounded, fluffy ears poking through his hair swiveled back and forth. “Flattery is a good way to get into a demon’s heart, they say.” He reached to the small table to his side and picked up what looked like a box of chocolates. “Here,” offered the demon. “Why don’t you both have some? It looks like you’ve been through a lot recently.”

“You have no idea,” rumbled Tyson, taking the box and holding it out for Bert. The Orc-Satyr hybrid eagerly grabbed a handful and began shoveling it into his mouth. Tyson had to pulled the box away before his charge made himself sick by devouring the entire box. He took one himself and put it to his lips but immediately flinched when it slammed against his tusk.

“Damnit…” he mumbled, using his thumb to wipe away the chocolate smeared across his left tusk. The remnant of the treat he shoved between his tusks and ate. It was a strawberry cream truffle.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” Banchomyon suggested calmly.

Tyson detailed the events that had led to his transformation. Waking up just a few hours ago seemed so distant like it was another life ago. It was just a little before noon and yet he was already exhausted. Every now and then, he would have to consciously ignore Bert who was once again fondling himself or visibly ogling his foster father. When he got to the point about the Inscription, Banchomyon’s brow furrowed.

“I’ve never even heard of an Inscription before,” Tyson explained. “From what little Albert could explain, it was like a magic spell engraved into his very soul that he instinctively knew how to use. It was highly conditional as well.” Holding up one hand, he momentarily flinched. There was an instant of panic where wondered where his second pair of arms were. Then he recalled that, as an Orc, he only had one pair. “Most spells just require instructions, intent and energy,” he said, reciting a passage lifted straight out of middle school text books. “Sometimes there are conduits or more complicated rituals would need multiple casters but ultimately, it just comes down to those three components. With Albert, the instructions and intent were one and the same. They were hard coded into him. There didn’t seem to be any consumption of energy either. It was just as long as he met the condition of his Inscription, it triggered.”

The tiger-like demon didn’t speak. This was the part of the session where he remained silent and just let his patients rant. It irked Tyson that he was being treated just like any other person that sought his help but he also acknowledged he was probably acting like one. There was the faintest bit of hysteria in his voice and he hadn’t noticed he was the only one speaking up until that point.

Knowing his father’s modus operandi, he nevertheless continued his recounting of events.

“I told Albert to take a shower after the long night he had and that’s when I sent that email to you.”

A faintest flick from his father’s ear indicated that Banchomyon had indeed seen and read the email. Whether or not it was before or after Tyson had called him in a panic was yet to be determined.

“Then I remembered that Albert’s Inscription was triggered by ‘washing’ or touching water and I just sent him to the shower,” continued the newly made, red-haired Orc. “In a panic, I went to him. He was alright, surprisingly enough. He told me he had to trigger it. I guess he discovered that after the first time he inadvertently used it. Either way, I talked to him and we briefly discussed my past clients. That led to conversation about my treatment of him, one thing led to another and I started examining his soul in the shower.”

No reaction from his father. To be expected.

Tyson took a moment to brace himself because he knew what he was about to say would be shocking. Events were still a blur in his memory. The throes of pleasure and ecstasy had been quite distracting. Sensations of transforming and the constantly ebb and flow of building pressure, release and relief that came with Albert’s changing body didn’t leave him with much time to really pay attention to what was happening beyond the barrage of orgasms.

“Everything started normally enough,” he began. “I used sexual stimulation as a bridge from the physical to the metaphysical and once I made contact with Albert’s soul, I began analyzing his recent history in a way I could interpret.” He offered a coy little smile but immediately retracted it the minute he felt the unfamiliar weight of his jutted lower jaw and the tusks that it carried. “You know me. I transcribed it all into magic circles.”

Still no reaction from Banchomyon.

“I hit a block though,” Tyson said, wringing his hands together. “Just as I was coming to Albert’s recent history, I hit the Inscription. This blazing wall of words that stopped me from seeing anything beyond that.”

There was the faintest narrowing of Banchomyon’s eyes. Something about that last sentence piqued his curiosity. There was no point trying to delve into the much more experienced animacologist’s thoughts. He would share them in time.

“I got permission from Albert to continue and then I proceeded to use the techniques I learned from my friends in the White Orchid to fully enter him so I would have a stronger foothold in his soul. Once I was there and I had control over his nervous system, I did my usual thing of increasing his sensitivity across the board and then using those as psionic scalpels to try and make myself an opening past the Inscription.” Holding up his hands, he said, “I was not doing any Shaping. I swear. It was the first session. That would be incredibly reckless. I was just trying to probe further. I thought I got an opening but then I was suddenly ejected from the soul and… well… we began to transform.”

Tyson hung his head in shame. “I… lost control at that point. It was overwhelming. Even for me. We changed. I felt every part of Albert’s body as it morphed and shifted. It felt… good. I don’t know if that was because of my influence but it was like my whole body was orgasming.”

At long last, Banchomyon said something. “I suspect it was because you were using the White Orchid’s techniques of effectively turning your entire body into a living, liquid consisting entirely of nerve cells designed for sexual stimulation swimming in a cocktail of the four pleasure hormones. I think had you not been connected to your patient at the time in the way you were and maintaining your spell, the experience would have been excruciatingly painful.”

Recalling how Albert had flinched at the mere mention of the ritual that had branded him with an Inscription, he could only assume that was true. That brought some relief and eased his anxiety somewhat. Of course, he also realized that was exactly what Banchomyon intended. A well-placed statement to calm him.

His dad the demon therapist at work.

“We changed,” Tyson continued, a frown crossing his lips. Strange that it was more natural to frown with his tusks present than to smile. “But something else continued to push me out. Now that I think about it, as every part of Albert was changing, I was being pushed out of the transformed limb. I was being herded into his balls where I was eventually ejected violently. Pleasurably, mind you, but still violently. He shot me across the bathroom!”

Banchomyon had gone back to quiet observation mode so Tyson concluded his tale.

“I don’t know how long I was just sitting there in liquid form but I started pulling myself together and when I managed to reform, I was… this.” He gestured at his body with both his green hands. “Albert seemed to have changed mentally as well. He doesn’t recall anything about ‘Albert Tien’ or anything beyond the past few hours and started calling himself ‘Bert’. He seems to have mentally degraded to have the intelligence of a particularly horny teenager just discovering that his dick can be used for more than just shooting piss. I called you shortly after that.”

“Did you try to return to your liquid state and reform?” his father asked.

“First thing I tried. I just kept defaulting to this.” Tyson’s shoulders slumped. “Admittedly, the techniques I learned aren’t really shapeshifting techniques. Not really. I just can’t seem to turn back into my actual body and I’m afraid that it could damage my soul.”

Banchomyon nodded gravely, closed all three of his eyes and took a moment to consolidate his thoughts. Not even thirty seconds later, he opened only his third, middle eye. Instantly, Tyson had the awful feeling of being heavily scrutinized; the sensation of being watched while walking alone in the middle of the night. His foster father was peering into his soul.

“Interesting,” rumbled Banchomyon. Then he turned his gaze towards Bert who had been unsupervised for the past five minutes. The Orc-Satyr had proceeded to shamelessly licking his own flexed biceps but immediately stopped when the demon’s gaze fell upon him. The hybrid visibly squirmed, made an uncomfortable face and immediately crossed his arms protectively across his chest.

“Eeeewww… Feel… weird. Naked.”

“Yeah buddy,” sighed Tyson, reaching over and patting the transformed man’s shoulder comfortingly. “That’s just my dad’s Third Eye. Souls aren’t meant to be seen naturally here on the Central Material Plane especially while inside living people. What you’re feeling is someone looking into your soul.”

Banchomyon lingered a little longer on poor Bert before finally opening his other two eyes. A frown was on his muzzle.

“I have good news and bad news,” said the demon.

Tyson braced himself, clutching one armrest tightly in one hand and Bert’s firm shoulder with the other. “Bad news first.”

Banchomyon leaned back in his chair, gesturing towards Bert. “For all intents and purposes, Bert right there has a very young soul. As far as I can tell, he was created just a few hours ago as a fully mature, fully grown Priapan but with the intelligence of one of those hokey, offensive Orcish stereotypes you see online and some forms of racist media. A dumb brute that refers to himself in the third person or as ‘Orc’ and can barely form complete sentences.”

The frown on Tyson’s face mirrored his father’s. “What? That’s impossible. Albert Tien is a man in his mid-thirties!” Then he gestured at Bert. “And this clearly the body of an Orc that is more than a few hours old.”

“So you would think,” his foster father agreed. “However, whatever magic transformed him has not only revitalized every cell in his body but his very identity. If you were to date every cell in his body, it would clearly say that he was an Orc in his mid-thirties but there wouldn’t be any traces or anything before that. I can’t even detect any of the omelet you served him this morning.”

Tyson glanced from his father to Bert in utter confusion. “I… what…? Huh?”

“I’m sorry, son,” Banchomyon said miserably. “But I can’t find a trace of this Albert Tien in the body or soul that you’ve brought me. This is Bert. Just Bert.”

“But… But what happened to Albert?” Tyson demanded.

“I’m Bert!” exclaimed the enthusiastic Orc-Satyr or Priapan as his species was officially known.

Tyson ignored him. “Are you telling me I killed Albert? Not just killed him, basically wiped him off the Planes?”

Banchomyon lifted his paws, trying to calm Tyson. “Don’t jump to conclusions and don’t go blaming yourself for something you clearly did not know about. There are similar magics and curses that can ‘reset’ an individual’s life. Genies have been known to reverse the clock and trap people in newborn bodies even though they are fully conscious. Therianthropes undergo similar metamorphoses when they transform into their secondary forms, often with the base and Therian forms being entirely separate ages. The entire Elder species don’t age but can consciously decide to split their consciousness into different, newborn bodies as needed.”

The demon therapist stood up and padded over to Tyson, resting a paw on his head like he used to when Tyson was a human. “There could be various things at play here. Perhaps Albert Tien’s mind and soul were just displaced much like when you were forcibly ejected from this Orc’s body. We don’t know. What I do know, however…” His eyes drifted back to Bert who was now openly gawking at the towering demon with an erection in his shorts. “… is that his PMI ratio is completely balanced.”

Tyson’s followed his father’s gaze to Bert. “So his physical and metaphysical are in complete alignment. He has no risk of animanecrosis.”

“Correct. He is in an existential equilibrium. I’ve honestly never seen such a stable ratio in my life.” A little smile touched Banchomyon’s lips. Pride, perhaps. “I like to think your gifts at reshaping the body to mirror the soul actually helped in this regard but we still don’t know everything.”

“Alright. But what about me?”

Banchomyon lifted a finger. “That’s where the good news comes in.” His father gave him a slightly broader smile. “From what I can tell, whatever curse was inflicted upon you is entirely temporary.”

Tyson’s heart jumped at that and he looked up at his foster father’s golden eyes with hope. “Really? How?”

The demon tiger knelt beside him so that they were at eye-level with one another. “The best I can tell is that the affliction was not meant for you. It changed your physical body, yes, but it didn’t change your mind or your soul. It has no grounds to continue to maintain the spell and as such, it is wearing off.”

“How can you be sure?” asked the red-haired Orc.

The demon tiger’s smile grew a little broader. “It’s the way you tried to eat the chocolate I gave you. Your discomfort in smiling or speaking. Even how you’re sitting. Bert, over there, acts like he’s been an Orc all his life but you are clearly uncomfortable in your new shape.”

Tyson spread his arms wide by his sides. “Of course I’m uncomfortable! This isn’t me! We spent months perfecting my demon body! Now I’m… I’m this!”

“And it’s going to wear off,” Banchomyon said gently. “You just need to give it time. I can see where it tried to change your soul but since it couldn’t find any purchase, it’s just formed a hard shell around it, hence the initial transformation and your inability to change back. However, without any energy to constantly maintain it, it is crumbling. It’s like if a wicked witch of old tried to inflict a curse upon a handsome prince with the intent of turning him into a frog so long as he remained arrogant or conceited but the prince had always been humble and kind. The initial cast and impact will be there but without anything to fuel the spell in the long term, the curse is just going to fade. More and more of your actual form will come through eventually.”

“How long will that take? Because the longer it goes, my soul could -”

Banchomyon patted his hand gently. “Tyson, remember what I taught you about the soul. It is a record of your life, your deeds, your emotions and your thoughts. The more you fight or reject what has happened, the more disparity you introduce and that is where you start running the risk of diseases like animanecrosis.” Holding up two fingers, he said, “Anchor yourself. Remember you’ve got me and your brother who will love you no matter what. Understand and accept that, right now, you are cursed and are an Orc but that curse will wear off and you will be back to being a demon in due time. Accept that and the soul that emerges from the cursed shell will be just as strong, if not stronger, than it once was.”

He was right. Of course he was right. Banchomyon had been in this business for centuries. The Third Eye also didn’t lie. This diagnosis was possibly the best thing Tyson could have hoped for apart from a quick counterspell that would have undone the entire curse.

Loud banging and yelling suddenly erupted from behind them. All three men turned towards the door.

Bang!

Teddy came barging in, panting and dressed in his trademark red coat. One of Zaria’s hands was clutching his shoulder while the Zombie herself was a few steps behind.

“Tyson! Dad!” the younger twin exclaimed. “What the fuck!?”

Banchomyon let out a little sigh as Zaria reconnected her arm with the one clutching Teddy’s shoulder and tried to use the extra weight to pull him back.

“It’s okay, Zaria. Let my son through. This involves him as well.”

The Zombie threw Teddy a foul look but acquiesced. She shut the door behind him. Teddy immediately scrambled to Tyson, staring at him with slack-jawed disbelief. The younger of the Prowler twins tried saying something a few times but it got caught in his throat. Of course, whenever Teddy genuinely got stumped on what to say, he reverted to his default behavior…

… sexually charged jokes.

“So…” Theodore Prowler began, lifting his eyebrows and giving Tyson a sleazy grin, “… if we fuck is that still incest or since you’re technically got different DNA now…?”

Tyson punched his brother’s arm. Not hard but with enough force to remind his younger sibling that he was still many times stronger than the human. “Asshole. You got me into this mess.”

“Hey, no one told you to fuck the janitor!” Teddy barked back. “I just wanted your expertise to see what the hex was happening with him! To figure out what the fuck that ‘Inscription’ was.” His gaze then turned to Banchomyon. “Speaking of…?”

The demon tiger shrugged absently. “I have no idea what this ‘Inscription’ was.”

Tyson frowned. The use of past tense did not slip by him. “What do you mean ‘was’?”

Banchomyon shrugged. “I don’t see anything strange about Bert’s soul. No blazing words branded to his soul. No ‘new kind of conditional magic’. Nothing. The only thing odd, as far as I can tell, is that his body and soul look like they were just born into the world a few hours ago. Like some god just ‘poofed’ him into existence.”

Teddy blinked a few times in utter disbelief then glanced towards Bert who waved at him with a dopey grin on his face. Tyson could see his lewd comment form a mile away.

“Does that mean fucking him -”

“Nope!” Tyson shouted, immediately getting up from his seat and slapping his big, green hand over Teddy’s mouth. “You are not going to befoul this office with that sentence.” Taking a moment to breathe and calm himself, Tyson said, “Look, dad said that whatever happened to me is going to wear off eventually. But that doesn’t change the fact that I was still turned into an Orc. I still don’t know why, though.”

Banchomyon padded over to Bert who licked his lips at the sight of the demon tiger looming over him. “I have a theory about that.” Folding his paws behind his back and underneath his wings, Banchomyon said, “Your entire process of reshaping someone’s body involves you becoming what is essentially a living liquid infused with your consciousness and merging yourself with the biological form of your patient. You become one with them in every aspect and stimulate them so that you can ‘ride’ the waves of pleasure to their soul as the natural process of documenting such an experience is undertaken. For all intents and purposes, you are piggybacking off them.”

“Pretty much,” Tyson rumbled. “But it’s more complicated than just that. I use that technique to look into their soul and try to figure out what the best shape their body can take to match their soul. You know this.”

“I and everyone else that has read your paper or knows about your procedures,” Banchomyon rumbled. “My theory is that whatever this ‘curse’ was, it may have inadvertently affected you because you were merged with the victim at the time.” He glanced over to Tyson. “You mentioned that Albert Tien’s hand was already transformed into an Orc by the time you met him.”

“Yes.” He nodded vigorously. Then he felt something thick and slimy against his fingers. A creeping sensation ran up his spine and he immediately pulled is hand away from Teddy’s mouth and his younger brother’s tongue. “What are you, twelve!?”

“Bite me,” snickered Teddy. Turning back to their foster father, the Delver said, “You’re thinking that Albert’s soul was booby trapped for some reason and Tyson triggered it? But because he was merged with Albert, he got caught in the blast?”

“I do indeed,” said Banchomyon.

“But why am I just a normal Orc and Bert…” Tyson gestured at himself and then at Bert. is… well… A hybrid? A Priapan?”

Bert reached out towards Banchomyon and began squeezing the enormous tiger demon’s huge thighs with the muscles outlined by those burning runes. Tyson made to pull him away but his foster father lifted a paw and stopped him.

“I believe that the curse, this Inscription, was designed to transform Albert Tien into a plain Orc just like you are now, Tyson,” said the demon. “When you triggered the trap, the Inscription, you had inadvertently put yourself between the Inscription and Albert’s physical form. That meant you took most of that blow. However, since you were still connected with Albert and you were in the midst of your procedure, it overwhelmed you and basically forced you to change him into what would be the optimal form for his afflicted soul at the time. There was a part of him that was already an Orc. The transformation ultimately changed him into his current form because that was the shape his soul had become at the time. I would hazard to guess that had he not been Inscribed, he might have been more fitting as a Satyr than as a human.”

Teddy crossed his arms and leaned towards Tyson, speaking out from the corner of his mouth. “I dunno. He seemed kind of a prude. Winter Court and all.”

“Sexual repression might have played a part in it,” Tyson surmised. “From what I see, he barely got any action and he was pretty unsatisfied with that. Souls are weird things.”

Their gazes were torn away from one another and towards Bert who had now proceeded to nuzzle their father’s thighs and was dangerously getting close to the demon’s crotch.

“Hey Bert…” began Tyson.

“Leave him,” Banchomyon said, waving away their concerns. “He’s curious. Let him explore.” The demon turned his head towards them. “Now, I suggest you continue this investigation post-haste. We don’t know what these Inscriptions really are. Still seems incredibly odd to grant anyone some sort of power only for it to explode and transform the wielder into something else, their souls and bodies wiped clean. Could be a form of terrorism to avoid captured assets from being interrogated.” Banchomyon shrugged. “I cannot say. However, my son was caught in the blast and I will not let that stand.”

The feline demon reached down, grabbed one of Bert’s curved horns and roughly guided the man’s face right into his crotch. “I will continue to see if I can find out anything about our poor victim here. I suggest you both see if Teddy’s client might know more about what is happening and what he may have done to invoke this kind of act against him.”

Tyson grimaced as his father’s intentions became abundantly clear. Banchomyon had been the one that had introduced him to the Order of the White Orchid after all and he was still an prominent member.

“Fuck me,” rumbled Teddy. “And here I was hoping I would get some sleep.”

Tyson grabbed his brother by the collar and began dragging him out of the office before things got too messy. His father was already starting to remove that awful lion cub tie and he didn’t want to think what he’d use that for let alone be in the same room to see it happen.

“You can sleep in the car,” he said. “Just tell me where Harrow is.”

?

‘Doctor’ Casey Harrow squirmed uncomfortably in his high-backed, cushioned, leathery chair. The meeting room in one of his larger clinics was typically designed for staff to telecommute with others in his broad network of facilities. The donut-shaped table had a ring of panels at the center that would ensure that everyone seated around the circle would be able to address anyone connecting to the meeting remotely. The walls were covered in rosy, wooden paneling to give a warm impression. The floor was covered in a soft, dark gray carpet with a few differently colored dots here scattered about like someone had spilled paint upon a dark canvas.

Today, however, the screens were off and four people sat around the table.

Harrow sat on one extreme of the ring while two others sat opposite to him.

Detective Knight Keening sat between them, glancing from one party to the other, Harrow to his right and the two unknown individuals to his left.

Harrow was a fifty-something Orc. Possessing a powerful build typical of the Orc that his advertisements and PR team promoted, his body was partially obscured by the white lab coat he wore. His rusty-tan skin was stretched taut by his muscles which Detective Keening could tell were more for show than actual use. The man had a pair of impressive, perfectly symmetrical tusks jutting from his broad, lantern-like jaw. A rugged stubble covered his face making him look a little more approachable. The receding hairline and flecks of gray in his slicked-back, black hair aged him quite a bit but his powerful body still screamed ‘youth’. Sharp, brown eyes shrouded under a heavy brow and thick, black eyebrows scanned the room, looking for an exit.

What could make a man who was not only physically intimidating at his 6’2’’ height brimming with lean muscle that owned a multi-million omni franchise up and down the west coast so nervous?

Knight turned his gaze to the other two that had interrupted his meeting with Harrow. One was a powerfully built Orc that was constantly picking at his tusks. Grassy-green flesh, impressive build and blazing red hair. A rare quality in Orcs. Especially those red irises of his. The detective for the Sanctuary City Police Department wondered if there was some Fire Elemental or Demon in the man’s blood.

It was the character beside the Orc that set Knight on edge. A human with blond hair, blue eyes and dressed in a long, red trench coat. Unlike Harrow, Keening could tell that this man’s muscles were not just for show. They had seen action. It was just in the way he held himself. Seemingly relaxed, oozing confidence and with this laser-like focus in his eyes.

This man, Theodore Prowler, was a Delver.

Harrow dramatically cleared his throat, even going so far as to form a fist and cover his lips. “Mr. Prowler, I’d like to introduce you to Detective Knight Keening from the SCPD.” Harrow gestured at the detective with a strained smile. “He was just talking to me about the police department’s concerns with these threats I’ve been receiving.”

The Delver turned to him, lifting one eyebrow. “An Elder detective? I’m surprised you’re not running the SCPD at your age.”

Knight immediately bristled, his deep, navy-blue fur with a white undercoat shuffling visibly like wind blowing through sapphire-colored grassy fields. The collection of short, stubby, fleshy tendrils that grew around his jawline to form a rough, sort of chinstrap beard wiggled in irritation. He narrowed his bright, green eyes - his irises blazing constantly like the nucleus of an emerald star against a field of black sclera. Strange, yellow pupils dilated slightly as he took in the Delver.

“Not all Elder are rich, wealthy people of influence and power, you know,” he said in a low, gravelly tone. It was a pain to keep his Elder-Speech at a minimum and suppressing that part of him made him sound like an ancient cement mixer. “And I’ll have you know, I am just 126 years old.”

“I forget what that is in near-immortal. Is that about when your seventeen balls drop or when you start growing eyes everywhere?”

The unnamed Orc elbowed the Delver roughly. “Teddy! For fuck’s sake.” The Orc regarded Knight apologetically. “I’m so sorry, detective. My brother doesn’t really like cops. He used to dream of being one but you know what it’s like.”

It was Knight’s turn to raise an eyebrow only his were not made of hair follicles but craggy, gray-white chitin similar to the four horns that jutted out of his head and curled backwards along the shape of his lupine skull. This was in contrast to the tuft of black fur that he purposefully groomed, dyed and grew to form a little spiked head of hair. Four, leaf-like ears poked out from the base of each of his horns and all four swiveled towards the Orc.

“Brother?” he repeated.

“Twins, actually,” answered the Orc. “My name is Tyson Prowler. I -”

“Am the Monster Maker,” Knight responded coolly. “You’re a celebrity here in Sanctuary City. You created a procedure that could more easily assess and treat terminal soul-related diseases by using pleasure as a means to examine the soul. You use such techniques as a sort of anesthesia to transform an individual’s body to align them with their maligned soul.”

The Orc was clearly surprised. “You know about me?”

He gave the man a little smile. “Who hasn’t heard of the man who treated Angel Pitt and a few other celebrities?” Knight lifted a human-like hand covered in his navy-blue fur with bare palms. Only three fingers accompanied by a thumb sprung from his palm. “Besides, such revolutionary techniques are groundbreaking for the ‘near-immortal’. Above all other species, those of us who live much longer are susceptible to soul-afflicting diseases. The more we experience, the more we run the risk of something cracking in our souls.”

Theodore Prowler huffed loudly, folding his arms. “Didn’t think you were that old to be waxing poetic, grandpa. I thought 126 was still a baby to you Elder.”

It was clear the Delver was trying to get a rise out of him. That was to be expected. Law enforcement always had rather difficult relationship with Delvers. Since Delvers could freely bounce across the line of what was legal but suffered the risk of being treated harshly, police officers were mandated to shoot them on sight if they impeded operations but also to treat them with respect. Even the SCPD employed the occasional Delver team especially if what they needed done wasn’t exactly permissible in court.

“We Elder typically don’t reach physical maturity until we’re fifty,” answered Knight calmly. “Puberty typically lasts for twenty years. At 126, by my best estimate, I would be around thirty in terms of the CMP time frame. Young by my species’ standards but still as susceptible as anyone to any diseases of the soul. Which begs the question…” He eyed Tyson Prowler. “… I read you were meant to be a demon? Of the leonine version?”

Tyson bounced Knight’s gaze over to Harrow. “It’s why we needed to our good cotza, Mr. Harrow.”

“Doctor Harrow,” corrected the entrepreneur.

“With all due respect, Mr. Harrow,” Tyson responded curtly and with a thin smile through his tusks. “You never graduated from medical school nor published a doctoral thesis. Your title of ‘Doctor’ is just something you slap on your advertising to give your business more credibility. To protect yourself from false-advertising lawsuits, you claim it as your nickname.”

Knight bit back a smirk. Clearly Tyson Prowler had done his research. As an actual medical practitioner, albeit in a different field, he likely had access to most public knowledge around Casey Harrow.

“Let’s cut the bullshit, okay?” Tyson continued. “Someone cursed one of your employees and I got caught in the crossfire. We want to know why someone, anyone, would want to do this to you.”

Harrow visibly bristled in annoyance. “I have an education in -”

“Save it,” Tyson interrupted, making a slicing motion through the air. “We can go around measuring each other’s dicks later. You were the one that hired my brother to go after GHM and you were the one that pointed him in the direction of that abandoned factory near the Rocks. Why?”

Knight decided he liked this Demon-in-an-Orc’s body.

The tan-skinned Orc whose building they were currently in forcibly straightened himself. Harrow tilted his head slightly, shifting his lower jaw from left to right as he mulled the question. “I gave all the information I had to your Delver brother. GHM was the only vocal opponent to my practices and it had come to my security team’s attention through their own investigation that they were gathering at that factory. Nothing more.”

But, as Detective Keening had surmised, there was nothing wrong with a gathering in an abandoned factory for a protest group with religious undertones. Maybe a citation about trespassing but from what he recalled, the factories near the Rocks were all abandoned. No one, not even the official owners of the property, would enforce such laws. The only danger the GHM members posed was to themselves.

Little surprise that Harrow had opted to secure the services of a Delver team. The police would be unable to do anything against GHM. No member of their congregation had done anything to hurt any of Harrow’s employees or damage his assets. Their vocal outcry against the image he was promoting of Orcs may have hurt his reputation a little and lost him some business but that was it. Nothing illegal.

Until now.

“Nothing about a kidnapping?” Teddy Prowler, the Delver, asked, his blue eyes showing a faint sheen that hinted at magical talent. If Knight had to guess, Teddy was likely classed as either a Scion, Slayer or Awakened Adept. Given the human’s build, however, he guessed he was an Adept. There was no sizzle in the air of magic and he didn’t get that tingling feeling at the end of the two, long, blue, fleshy tendrils that sprung from Knight’s back, just from his shoulder blades that came down to his ankles. Teddy wasn’t using any sort of magic in his interrogation.

“Nothing,” Harrow responded with a helpless shrug. “Who was the victim?”

“Albert Tien.”

The Orc entrepreneur frowned. “Sorry, who?”

Teddy looked a little annoyed and when he next spoke, it was with an edge of venom. “He was a janitor working for one of your clinics. You were sponsoring him for an education in orthodontics. The deal was that he work part-time for you cleaning up your offices and you gave him a free ride into dental school.”

A little smile touched Harrow’s lips, spreading over his impressive tusks. “Ah, our Teeth of Tomorrow program. Yes. It’s just our way of making sure that we have proper dental care and providing ample opportunity for our employees to advance in their career.”

Knight didn’t say anything about the very-corporate statement and just watched Harrow closely. The owner of his own dental franchise tapped a few keys on his personal epitaph. A woman answered the call shortly afterwards and Harrow asked her to give him a list of all the people who had called in sick or were absent from work in the past few days.

“Everything from management to maintenance,” commanded Harrow.

“Yes, sir. I’ll have it to you shortly.”

Turning back to Teddy, Harrow said, “What happened to Mr. Tien?”

“He was kidnapped and cursed,” answered the Delver. “Inflicted with some sort of painful ritual.” Taking out a phone - a Nebula - he unfolded the device and passed it to Harrow. “We took pictures of the ritual circles used and the message on the walls.”

Harrow was instantly agitated, worry creasing his brow and his lips quivering. The Orc turned the phone towards Knight, pointing at the images of threatening messages in red paint on the walls. “You see? GHM is after me!”

‘Freed through an Inscription. The first of many.’

Those words seemed threatening but the courts could easily dismiss it. There was nothing here to directly link the curse to GHM or even indicate malice towards Harrow. Not to mention a Delver took them. Unless those runs were still there, they would not have anything to go on. Certainly not enough to get a warrant.

“You didn’t catch anyone at the scene?” asked Knight.

“No one,” responded Teddy. “By the time we got there, the whole place was abandoned. A few automated traps and cameras but they were all isolated to a local infosphere. It wasn’t transmitting anywhere else. Security room was empty too. Place had been wiped clean.”

“So nothing that would directly link it to the Green Hand Movement except a tip from your…” He looked directly at Harrow. “… security team.”

The Orc flinched and let out a grimace. “No… I suppose not.”

“So it is entirely possible that this could have not been related to your business at all. This kidnapping and subsequent cursing could have been something relating directly to Mr. Tien.” Knight turned back to the two Prowlers. “Tell me, where is the victim now? What is their current state?”

The twins exchanged glances before turning back to the Elder Detective.

“He’s… been wiped,” explained Tyson warily. The Shaper of muscular fame explained what had happened to Albert Tien and himself including the expert analysis by his of father, the demon Banchomyon. Vivid details were omitted though Knight quietly wished that he could get them in writing. Not only for official records but also because he needed some reading material. It had been a while since he had some ‘stress relief’ and he recounted that Doctor Prowler’s sessions could be very ‘relieving’.

“Best we can tell, the person that my dad is currently examining is no longer Albert Tien,” Tyson surmised. “Where he is, where his mind or soul is, we don’t know. We think it’s been displaced but there’s also the distinct possibility that it was reshaped.”

“Resurrection?” Harrow quipped.

“You’re thinking about Reincarnation,” Knight corrected. “Resurrection is the process of bringing someone back from the dead as they were. Reincarnation is taking the deceased and reconstituting them into a new life. However, there would still be traces of their previous life in the reincarnated form.” His eyes drifted back to Tyson. “What you’re describing seems to suggest that Mr. Tien’s constitute parts were used in some spell to create an entirely new being.”

Tyson’s gaze dropped and there was a clear sign of worry and shame in his eyes.

“We don’t know that,” Teddy said fiercely. “Which is why we’re here.” The Delver pointed at Harrow. “You hired us to put a stop to GHM but it’s starting to sound more and more likely that they may not even be involved in this and someone is trying to make you go after them while hiding their tracks. So spill it. Who else could have any reason to go after you, Harrow?”

The Orc held up his hands, backing away into his seat. “Honestly, I don’t know! I’m just an honest businessman. Our procedures are affordable. We’re accepted in most networks. We promote education and give to charity! I don’t see any reason why we would be targeted.”

“You’re still a publicly traded company,” Knight said. “What about your shareholders?”

“Why would they want to ruin me? It’s their investments that would go down the drain.”

“Unless they grew tired of your inaction against GHM and decided to spur you to action.”

Teddy smirked and leaned forward, resting an arm on the circular conference table. “Oh, that’s a good angle, grandpa.” His eyes gleamed at Harrow. “Maybe your board of directors got impatient that you’ve been taking it too sweazy with GHM and decided to make you act against them. Seems more and more likely that GHM have nothing to do with this but because your board’s profits ain’t gold and you can’t really do anything against them, they started their own conspiracy to make you act.”

Knight held up a paw, waving down the Delver. “We have no evidence of that. Still, we should keep it as a possibility.” If his long career in law enforcement had taught him anything, everyone and anyone was capable of anything. Not everything was a global conspiracy. Even the smallest of acts could be motivation enough to spur someone into doing something heinous.

However, to inflict such a complicated curse upon someone’s very soul with bizarre repercussions… That was not the act of a single individual. There was definitely a group involved. Which group remained to be seen.

“How far back were you able to look into Mr. Tien’s recent history before you were blocked by the Inscription?” he asked Tyson.

The Shaper frowned a little and then grimaced as he was reminded of his tusks. “Not very far. I could see everything from his childhood up to maybe a day ago? Beyond that, the Inscription stopped me.”

“Anything about the day or week before that stuck out as strange?” Knight turned fully to face Tyson, holding up fingers as he began counting off the usual suspects. “Any feelings of being watched? Erratic behavior? Odd noises at unusual times of night? Strange vehicles?”

Tyson shook his head helplessly. “Not that I recall. Then again, I wasn’t really looking for that.” The green-skinned Orc with red hair frowned at him. “Why? What are you thinking?”

Knight turned away, instead focusing on his reflection in the screens in front of him. “Kidnapping usually isn’t just a spontaneous thing. Especially if there are no witnesses or reports of disturbances. It takes meticulous planning. Knowing your victim’s habits and rituals. Following them. Figuring out when is the best place to strike.” Giving Tyson a side-eye, he finished with, “I was hoping you may have detected some hint of the kidnappers.”

The Orcish Shaper shook his head apologetically. “Sorry. I was focused on the Inscription and didn’t really go looking for any of that.”

“What language was it? The Inscription, I mean.”

Tyson opened his mouth to respond but then abruptly shut it. The presence of his tusks made him twitch his cheeks a little as he was likely not used to their weight and how close the blunted points got to his skin. Knight had seen something similar in Orcish adolescents that were just growing into their tusks. It would take a few weeks or even months once the tusks stopped growing to stop flinching every time they shut their mouths. It was akin to anyone instinctively recoiling when something came really close to their face without touching it.

“Uhm… Material…?” Teddy answered for his brother, referring to the common language shared by all species on the Central Material Plane. “It said, ‘Wash away your inhibitions.’”

Tyson rested a big, green hand on his brother’s shoulder. “No… It wasn’t.”

Knight tilted his head in curiosity, refocusing his attention on the Orc. Their gazes met and there was a spark of inspiration burning behind those captivating, red eyes.

“A soul is a language of its own,” said Tyson Prowler. “Our experiences and emotions are recorded in our souls but they are our perspectives of the events. No one else would be able to understand them. The best any animacologist can do is to see it through a filter that interprets it into a medium that they can understand.”

“Alright,” Knight prompted. “And the Inscription. What language was it?”

“What’s the point?” Harrow asked impatiently. “What does it matter what language it was in?”

He shot the self-styled doctor a piercing look. “Because the Inscription was a foreign curse inflicted on someone’s soul. That means that someone else put it there. If they used some other language or script to apply it to the victim’s soul, it could hint at which Plane the spell originated from or at least give us some indication of the magical background it was based around. It’d be a lead.” Eyes back at Tyson, he asked, “Well, Doctor Prowler? Any idea what language the Inscription was in?”

Tyson frowned and shook his head, placing a big, meaty hand against the side of his face. “It… It’s weird. I recall seeing it and interpreting it as if it were written in Material Script. But when I look back, what was branded on Albert’s soul definitely wasn’t Material… It was… something else. Not a language I recognize.”

That was something. A thin something but something nonetheless. If they could identify the language that the Inscription used, it could lead them to investigate what forms of magic used that particular language. From there, they could start looking at experts in the field and possibly gain more insight.

“Can you draw it?” Knight asked. “If we had the words ‘Wash away your inhibitions’ written in different magical texts, could you identify it?”

Tyson lifted his gaze, a fierce determination burning in his eyes. “Yes. I think I could.”

Now they were getting somewhere. Knight smelled that there was more to this case than simply a protest group’s grievances against a wealthy fake doctor but they were making some headway. Quite lucky that he happened to be scheduled to meet Harrow at the same time the Prowlers barged in.

“Great,” he announced. “Would you be willing to come down to the precinct? I’d like to get your statement and then we can get our magical language expert to start running you some spells.”

“I’m coming too,” announced Teddy, rising to his feet. “And don’t bother trying to stop me, grandpa. You’ve got nothing on me.”

Knight returned a terse smile. “I have no concerns about employing Delvers or what Delvers do. Just as long as it doesn’t impede my investigation.” He then turned towards Harrow and nodded at Orc. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Harrow. I’ll be in contact if we need more information.”

The detective stood up, rising to his full 7’10’’ height. Taut muscles shifted beneath his tight, white, collared shirt with the movement and his long, blue, fleshy tail absently swished back and forth like a third tentacle springing from his back. It was completely prehensile so he was able to use it to easily grip the back of the chair he had been sitting on and push it away. The gray, cargo-pants he wore over his thick, tree-trunk-like legs rustled softly as he turned towards the door. He grabbed the black, leather jacket he had set on the conference table and slung it over his thick forearm.

“Do you need a ride to he precinct, Doctor?” he asked Tyson.

Teddy immediately put himself between Knight and his brother. “I’ll drive him.”

“Suit yourself. I -”

He was cut off when there was a loud bang followed by a faint sizzling that erupted from beyond the conference door. Both he and Teddy turned towards the noise, their hands immediately going to their sidearms. Knight noticed that Teddy had a silver Falcon PDP 45 by his side. Not a bad firearm. Light, relatively good accuracy and with little recoil. Not a lot of stopping power but still good as a secondary weapon.

Tyson and Harrow took a second longer to react.

“What was that?” barked Harrow.

Another similar sound but this one came in two rapid bursts. This was quickly followed by a series of cries and screams.

“That was a kinetic stun round,” Knight rumbled, his narrow ears perked. “Low caliber. Non-fatal conductive bullets designed to hit an opponent and then release a short paralyzing electric shock.” He glanced over to Harrow. “Is your security team armed?”

“Of course they are! This is corporate America! I’d be stupid not to arm my security!”

Teddy scowled, fishing out his weapon and pointing it at the door. He did the smart thing and held it in both hands, peering right down the barrel. Unlike most Delvers Knight knew who went for the ‘cool factor’ of holding a gun sideways or even holding two pistols at once, Teddy knew what he was doing.

“You armed them with fucking pea shooters,” rumbled the Delver. “Those things will take a full magazine to make it past even the most basic of personal shields and won’t even pierce armor.”

Another series of shots but this was followed by a loud crashing noise and more screams.

“Talk to me, Harrow!” barked Knight. “What’s going on?”

The Orc was scrambling with his epitaph, trying to contact anyone on his security team to figure out what was happening. The panicked voice that came through sent ice through Knight’s veins.

“We’re under attack, Doctor Harrow!” cried a male voice. “They say they’re from GHM! They’re after you! They’re wielding some sort of strange magic! It’s … aaaaargh!”

Harrow looked directly to Knight. “Do you believe me now!?”

Knight cursed quietly under his breath. Attacking in broad daylight in the middle of the city was not tactically sound. The streets were busy. Police were roaming the streets. Lots of civilians. Harrow wasn’t out in the open either. He was on the third floor of a building and there were no windows in the meeting room. Whoever was attacking didn’t mean to be as efficient as possible. This was meant to make a statement.

This was terrorism.

Scowling, he dropped his jacket and immediately began unbuttoning his shirt, pulling off the thin fabric from his arms and then using the the two tentacles springing from his back to peel off the rest of the garment. Taking off his singlet came next and and after that, came his pants, leaving him in only the black underwear that contrasted against his blue and white fur. Knight opted not to wear any shoes.

“Who! What the hell!?” Teddy cried. “The fuck are you doing!?”

Knight ignored him for the moment before reaching for his jacket. Within a hidden holster inside the jacket was his own gun; a mana-action Desert Dragon Mark XXII colloquially known as the ‘Dragon Fucker’. The large handgun was made for species with bigger builds like himself and could not be wielded by a human or similarly sized people without some sort of stock or way to absorb the recoil. Even for him, as he pulled it from its holster, leather straps attached themselves to his forearm to ensure that it would not go flying whenever he fired it. The comfortable, black grip was perhaps the only thing ‘nice’ about the weapon as the side-mounted safety had a little spike attached to it that would forcibly extract some of his blood to not only ensure that only its designated wielder could fire the weapon but also to start the rituals and runes that would enable it to propel its bullets using his own magical reserves. There was no hammer behind the enormous, black barrel lined with arcane runes. All he had to do was pull the trigger and magnets all along the barrel would be activated using his magical energies and the round would be sent flying.

It was effectively a hand-held, magic-powered railgun.

“An Elder’s greatest weapon is their body,” rumbled Knight, rolling his shoulders and his tendrils rising up over his shoulders so that their pointed tips were angled forward. “Clothes get in the way of our mobility.”

“Okay but why are you in a goddamn thong!?” Teddy exclaimed. Then he pointed at Knight’s gun. “ And is that thing legal!?” Tilting his head in curiosity, the human finished with, “Side note, who is your dealer?”

He gave the human Delver a smirk while aiming his gun at the door, holding it in both of his large hands even with the harness. “The Sanctuary City Police Department.”

Taking stock of the situation, he glanced around conference room and his current resources. Two people who were armed and two non-combatants. These terrorists who claimed they were from GHM were after Harrow. This conference room was on the third floor of the clinic. No fire escapes or any other ways out of the room except the one door and he wasn’t sure what was on the other side. No easy way to get the VIP out without having to go through the door.

“Hey Delver,” he growled, baring his fangs. “Think I could hire you to help me extract Harrow from here safely with as few civilian casualties as possible?”

More gunfire. More sounds of fighting but it was getting closer. This time, all four of his keen ears could pick up a… sizzling sound that came just before every scream of agony.

“Throw in protecting my brother and you’ve got a deal,” answered Teddy, plucking his Nebula from the table. “I’ll call for the rest of my team. Don’t know if they’ll get here in time though.”

“I doubt reinforcements from the SCPD will be of any help either,” rumbled Knight. “So what’s your class? Scion? Slayer?”

“Awakened Adept.”

“Damn. I was way off.”

The sound of fighting grew closer and closer. He could practically hear them from down the hallway. Whoever these GHM agents were, they were rushing to get to Harrow. They had only one target in mind.

He could use that.

“Doctor Prowler,” Knight ordered, “get Mr. Harrow behind the table. Keep your head down and -”

To his surprise, Tyson Prowler took up position right beside him, rubbing his wrists and flexing his fingers. A tingling sensation prickled at the tips of Knight’s back tendrils. Magic was in the air.

“Harrow can look after himself,” rumbled the Orc. “I can fight.”

?

Sounds of fighting intensified. With each bang, boom and crash, Tyson felt his heart racing, pumping blood into his ears. They had no information on the numbers of the attackers or their capabilities. However, they did have knowledge on Harrow’s security detail.

“How many kevs do you have in this office?” he demanded.

“Kevs?” Harrow asked.

It took Tyson a moment to realize he had inadvertently switched to using Delver terminology. ‘DevTalk’ as it is known. Few outside of the Delvers could fully understand all the slang used and that was by design. Since Delvers were not exactly considered ‘polite company’, having their own way of dialect was bound to happen.

“Short of ‘Kevlar’,” he explained. “A throwback to when Kevlar vests were the best way protect individuals. Now used as a term for private security personnel.”

There was a moment of confusion on the Orcish businessman’s features before he nodded and checked his epitaph. “Fifteen people should be on shift,” answered Harrow, his voice shaking. After a bit of hurried tapping, he added, “Only twelve of them reported in today.” Then he pointed upwards. “There’s another floor above this one. Maybe we should go to the roof?”

A solid idea and something that movies and popular media normally encouraged. In reality, however, that was a terrible tactical solution. There was nowhere to hide up on rooftops and even less opportunity to escape.

Teddy made that clear. “We’ll get cyc’d. There’s rarely any cover up on the roof. Even if you had a room to land a car, we’d be out in the open for whatever it is that they’re throwing at us.”

Harrow threw Tyson another confused glance.

“Cycled,” explained the Shaper, knowing full well where that confusion had come from. He had trouble understanding Teddy when they met again after he had been ‘abducted’ by Banchomyon and Teddy had decided to go into Delving. “Referring to how our souls are recycled through the Planes after we die. Basically, if you’re cycled or cyc’d, you’re killed.”

Glancing towards the epitaph, he asked, “You still have access to the cameras, right?” Harrow indicated that he did. Locking gazes with his brother, Tyson backed away from the front line and hovered over the Orc’s shoulder. “That means that they don’t have an Operator or someone with InOps equipment. They might not be Delvers.”

“Or they decided not to bring any Operators on this gig,” his brother suggested.

“You know better than I that attacking a facility in broad daylight in the middle of the city basically requires an Operator. You need someone to delay alarms, cut off communications and jam any external feeds.”

A soft grunt came from Detective Keening. “You seem quite familiar with how Delvers work, Doctor.”

Tyson gestured at his brother. “The number of times this idiot dragged me into his messes meant I had to learn this stuff. Delvers live a dangerous life and they are just as likely to endanger those around them than themselves.” He gave Teddy a wink. “Love you, little brother.”

Harrow brought up the feed from the cameras. Four Orcs were marching up the stairs, just about to reach their floor. None of them wore any sort of uniform but were all dressed in attire that could best described as ‘Savage-Land-Chic’. The kind of garments that were meant to be representative of the oppressive gravity, minimal resources and survival-focused nature of the Savage Lands but take through a lens of a runway.

One of them had an open, brown, leather vest adorned with plumes from some sort of gray and white bird. The shorts he wore were made to look like crude cloth but it was clear that the frayed edges were artificially manufactured. Far too symmetrical. None of them bothered to wear any shoes. Tyson knew that this was an inaccurate stereotype of those who made their home in the Savage Lands. Footwear was critical especially when even the slightest cut from an inconspicuous rock could prove to be fatal. Another was adorned in what could only be considered a brown tube top that looked suspiciously silky and tight-fitting pants made out of interlocking ropes. He wasn’t sure if it was offensive to the cultures of the Savage Lands especially when they were adorning the attire while touting the mantra that Orcs originated from the Savage Lands.

Strangely, these men just seemed to stride unopposed through the hallways. In one brief encounter, a security guard fired his weapon at the approaching Orcs. They momentarily ducked behind a room but just a few seconds later, they were marching down the hallway again. The guard was lying on the floor, twitching and convulsing.

“Some sort of remote spell?” Harrow ventured.

“I’m not sure,” answered Tyson, brow furrowing. “I didn’t see any of them casting anything. Then again, it could have been a spell that was completely verbal in nature or some sort of prepared defensive spells but still… There are no telltale signs of magical discharge or arcane activity.”

The assailants had reached their floor and were making their way down the hallway. They were barging into every room, clearly searching for Harrow. That suggested that they really didn’t have someone working the cameras or the infosphere of the building.

Two more guards tried to ambush the group. As the GHM goons barged into one, large, meeting room, the guardsmen burst out of an adjacent room and charged in after them, hoping to corner them in the room itself. They got off a few shots before both guards suddenly dropped their guns, clutched their chest and crumpled to the ground. A bullet actually hit one of the Orcs but those non-lethal stun rounds were meant to disorient for capture. They did very little damage and though the hulking, barely-dressed brute stumbled, after a minute, he was shaking his head and getting up again.

“Shit,” cursed Harrow. “They’re right outside the door!”

Something about the scene didn’t sit well with Tyson. The GHM men were caught completely off-guard. Yet, somehow, Harrow’s security detail were taken down by some sort invisible spell. Retaliatory spells were certainly a possibility. Could have been a protective spell as well. But the first guard that had gone down hadn’t hit the Orcs and he was still downed by the mysterious effect.

He glanced up at the vents. Possibly an airborne pathogen that only activated in close proximity? No, if that were the case they would already have succumbed. Tyson snatched the epitaph from Harrow and switched to the other cameras. People were cowering off to the side, huddled over loved ones or hiding behind whatever furniture they could use to protect themselves. Harrow’s security detail were either writing on the floor in agony or deathly still.

The sounds of the Orcs’ heavy footfalls came closer and closer, approaching the lone door into the conference room. Tyson’s mind buzzed not only with the adrenaline of an upcoming confrontation but also because he could feel that he was on the cusp of a discovery.

Just as the doorknob began to jiggle, inspiration struck him.

“Wait!” he bellowed and immediately charged towards his brother and the Elder detective. The door swung open and he managed to place himself in front of the two, arms spread wide and barring his side’s shots.

“Out of the way, Doctor!” shouted Knight.

Tyson grabbed the barrel of that enormous gun and did the same with Teddy’s weapon, forcing them to point to the ground. “No! Don’t fire!” There was a few seconds of stunned silence. Slowly, he glanced over his shoulder at the four Orcs that now stood at the entrance to the conference room. “They have an Inscription.”

He felt more than saw Teddy go rigid.

The leading Orc, the one with the feathered vest, gave him a toothy grin. “Now how do you know about Inscriptions?”

Hypothesis confirmed.

Tyson released the guns he was holding and turned to fully face the invaders. None of them had any sort of weaponry. Though they could wrap themselves in protective wards and hurl spells, it struck him as odd that an entire team would consist entirely of magic casters. No tech specialists. No armored defenders. Not even a gun or melee weapon in sight. That tipped him off to something being very strange.

“We picked up one of your victims,” he responded. “A man by the name of Albert Tien. He had an Inscription forced upon him.”

The Orc scoffed, hands on his hips and baring his chest to them, challenging them to attack. “You came running to Harrow a lot faster than we thought you would. It was only after we had kidnapped his ass that the janitor was meant to deliver our message.”

Harrow poked his head out from underneath the conference table. “What message!? What do you people want!?”

The Orc scowled, his eyes looking past Tyson as the entrepreneur. “That you shamelessly promote an unrealistic standard of beauty for all Orcs. You drive the narrative that to be socially accepted as an Orc, you need to have big tusks, a straight back and all sorts of other cosmetic bullshit! Bullshit that you offer to fix for a price! You’re purposefully corrupting the image of Orcs to adhere to Central Materialist standards and are directly damaging the self-esteem of today’s youths! Your message around what it means to be a ‘good looking Orc’ can be directly linked to multiple cases of bullying, suicide and self-mutilation!”

Tyson quirked an eyebrow at the impressive male in front of him. Compared to the posters of the ‘ideal’ Orc plastered on posters around the conference room, this specimen fell slightly short. One of his tusks was smaller than the other and his blond hair was receding despite appearing to be in twenties. Regarding the other GHM members, they weren’t ugly by any means but they didn’t quite fit the picture perfect image of an Orc.

The terrible thing was that these men clearly believed their rhetoric. Practiced speeches aside, the tirade had such passion and honesty in it that Tyson couldn’t help but be moved.

“Are you insane?” blurted Harrow. “You think that hurting my staff and attacking me will help your cause? If it’s a matter of my procedures being too expensive, I’d happily book you in for a consultation -”

“Shut the fuck up, Harrow,” growled Teddy, lifting his gun towards the GHM invaders. “You ain’t gonna talk them down. They’ve already come this far. They give up now and getting pegged for assault is the least they’ll get. ” With a soft click, Teddy released the safety of his gun. “There ain’t no way they’re getting out of this without a few scars or cyc’d.”

The leading Orc smirked at him. “Smart. So you know this can only go down in one way.” He shrugged in a supposed helpless gesture. “So why don’t you just shoot me already?”

Tyson immediately held up his large, green hand and pushed his brother’s gun back down. “Don’t. That’s the trigger of his Inscription.” His eyes remained fixated on the attackers. “If I were to guess, any outward attack on them would cause some sort of violent reaction. Something that will stun or disable any offenders.”

The Orc with the feathered vest smirked at him. “Wow. You picked up all that in the few hours since you found our little messenger pigeon? Or maybe you’re a traitor, huh? Big Orc like you? Did you sneak into one of our gatherings and come crying back to Harrow about our plans? Or did he hire you to infiltrate us? Wouldn’t surprise me if that’s something that slimy bastard would resort to.”

So much for the theory that GHM were just being implicated in a grander conspiracy.

The impressive male waved a hand absently through the air. “Doesn’t matter. You’re right. We’re the ones blessed with an Inscription by Uraprik. We are blessed by the words, ‘Don’t you know that you’re toxic’!” Beaming confidently, he reached out a hand towards Tyson like he was offering to uplift him. “Anyone that takes any actions with the intention of hurting us will immediately be hit with severe poisoning!”

More than ever, he was glad he had convinced both Knight and Teddy not to fire their weapons. Their guns would have caused damage but even if they had managed to take down two of the GHM Inscribed, they would likely be wracked with pain from the toxins in their bodies. It wasn’t clear exactly what poisons would manifest in their bodies but considering how Harrow’s security team had dropped so quickly and suddenly, he had to guess it was some sort of fast-acting neurotoxin.

Were those innocent guards, who were just doing their jobs, going to survive?

“So we’re at an impasse,” chuckled the Orc darkly. “You can’t do anything to attack us. The instant you do, you’ll be condemned to a slow, painful death. You could always try and just block us but just remember that there is nothing stopping us from attacking you.” A little, crimson flame erupted from his palm. “So you’re better off stepping aside and letting us take Casey Harrow.”

“What do you even want with him?” Knight snarled, baring his fangs. “This is an act of terrorism. It won’t change public opinion. In fact, you’re just as likely to drive more people to hate you and throw themselves at Harrow’s procedures than to join your cult.”

“You’re thinking to small,” snickered the invader. “Once the Green Hand Movement is on the world stage we will be taken more seriously! We won’t just be that ‘crazy cult of Orcs’ anymore! We’ll be the Orcs with the power of Inscriptions!”

Tyson remembered the ominous words painted in the ritual site where Teddy had found Albert.

‘Freed through an Inscription. The first of many.’

Harrow let out an offended scoff. “So I’m just a stepping stone to you people?”

The leading Orc scowled at him. “You’re the first of many diseases on Orcish culture that needs to be exorcised. When you and your predatory practices are out of the way, we will go after the rest!” The man’s eyes darted back to Tyson. “Now hand him over or prepare to feel the blood boil in your veins!”

Tyson lifted his head defiantly, balling his fists and stepping forward despite his brother or Detective Keening’s protests. “You know, when I became an Shaper, I took an oath not to use my skills and techniques to harm another soul except in the cases of self-defense or for the preservation of life. But in this case…”

A dark smile crossed his features as his fingers started to gel together and fuse.

“… I’m happy to report that I will not be harming you.”

The leading Orc’s smile wavered slightly. “Good… So step aside.”

“Oh, I never said I’m giving up Harrow. I just said I’m not going to harm you.”

Lightning fast, he thrust his hand at the Orc. His fingers shot forward, transforming into a torrent of green liquid that drove itself right into the Orc’s half-open mouth and even up his nose.

“I’m going to make you cum.”

There was a second when he feared that the GHM Orc’s Inscription would trigger but, it was with much relief that it did not. Though he was prepared for such a situation, he didn’t feel any burning sensation in his chest, a wrenching feeling in his veins or any sort of pain. Whether it was because the Orc was far too shocked to actually trigger his Inscription or Tyson’s assault could truly be construed as being beneficial, he didn’t quite care. Right now, he needed to neutralize the male before him and he only knew one way to do that.

His entire body liquefied. Various colors on his body oozed into a singular, green monotone shade from his hair, eyes and even tusks. Light reflected off his undulating flesh like it was made of plastic or rubber. As had happened every time that he had shifted into this form, all of his senses immediately shutdown except for his sense of touch. No smell, sound, sight or taste. Just touch. But with all of his conscious power transfered to the one sense, his touch became ultra sensitive.

The vibrations in the air made from sound rippled across his liquid flesh. Those sounds bounced off objects in the room and back to him, forming a three dimensional map of his surroundings in his mind’s eye. Small particulates drifting through the air were absorbed into his mass and he was able to identify them. The metallic twang of the recycled, temperature-controlled air, the faint, sour edge of Teddy’s body odor since the Delver hadn’t showered after his last Delve and even to the rosy, musky scent of Detective Knight Keening’s cologne.

Most importantly, he could feel the Orc he was partially connected to. His gooey tendril that had entered the Orc seeped through cellular walls at a molecular level, entering the man’s bloodstream and spreading immediately to the man’s brain. The moment he was tapped into the man’s central nervous system, he went through his routine of ordering the host body to secrete all the pleasure hormones.

Dopamine. Oxytocin. Seratonin. Endorphins.

Pleasure, love, happiness and a natural pain killer.

The overload of all of these hormones had an immediate effect on the Orc; he instantly became erect. The smile on his face was purely involuntary and within moments, his mind was slipping into a sea of bliss. It was unavoidable. The chemicals wouldn’t let him do otherwise.

In this way, he was not being ‘harmed’.

He was being pleasured.

But these hormones’ effects were temporary and Tyson knew he had little time before common sensibilities would start taking over. Lightning fast, his entire form transformed into a sea of green goo that crossed the distance between him and his latest ‘patient’. His sudden movement shredded the clothes he had been wearing, the tearing noise surprising the other GHM goons. Part of his form curled around the man’s legs, a big green anaconda constricting its victim’s only form of escape. The Orc fell to his knees as Tyson’s upper half formed over him, body entirely still a singular color of green.

Tyson pressed his large hands against the man’s chest. It did not take long before he found what he was looking for; the Orc’s nipples.

“You really should’ve worn more than a vest on a raid,” he cooed. The Orc gurgled, his mouth still occupied by Tyson’s semi-liquid mass.

The Shaper pressed his own tusked lips against his victim, allowing his own tusks to liquefy and mesh with the man’s face. Kissing with an Orc’s face was still something he had to practice with and he did not want his clumsiness with his current form to be the factor that knocked this man out of his sexual stupor. Shock from the sudden onset of arousal was one of the factors that disabled his opponent but that would be fleeting if he did not act fast. Resistance was something he had to factor in all his treatments.

At the same time, he pushed his fingers into the man’s nipples. Nerves were immediately stimulated and the Orc convulsed. Tyson took the opening and poured himself into the Orc in steady waves; a rhythmic pumping that could only be akin to fucking. His own senses became that of the Orc’s and he became very aware of the consequences of his actions.

The throbbing erection behind those annoying itchy hemp pants. The electric shocks of ecstasy from erect nipples being violated. The invasive and yet strangely sensual undulating of his liquid mass seeping down the Orc’s throat. Performing these acts while simultaneously feeling them from the Orc’s nerves was something he could never get used to.

Every body he entered was different. Shape and sensibilities changed with every client. Bigger men sometimes enjoyed fucking his mass and feeling him enter them through their cocks. Smaller patients might enjoy being engulfed by him. Others might just enjoy the warm embrace of his non-Newtonian mass shifting and squirming around them. Erogenous zones varied from person to person and, normally, he would spend a few sessions trying to figure out what was the best way to enter his patient and thus ride their pleasure to their soul.

But he did not have that time.

The set the Orc’s nerves afire, overcharging them and making them ultra-sensitive to his every touch. Even the slightest movement caused the GHM member to spasm and leak precum into his pants. The floor hit the Orc’s back as he squirmed in pleasure, eyes rolled into the back of his head while his big hands were gripping the carpet strands for dear life.

The flood of sensations was enough for Tyson to ride it all the way to the man’s soul. Compared to his sensation with Albert which was like gently kayaking down a cool, mountain stream, this was like white water rafting down a roaring river of lava with treacherous rapids. He had to fight to keep himself steady or be lost in the currents of pleasure he was invoking himself. But he was a professional. This was not the first time he had used such crude techniques to get to a man’s soul.

The last drops of Tyson Prowler was sucked into the leading GHM Orc, the green goo slipping into the man’s lips and nipples in three final strands. The remaining GHM Orcs watched in shock as their leader seemed to just lie there for a second, stunned. A loud moan rose from the Orc in the vest and his huge hands went directly for his cock which was tenting painfully against his tan pants, a very obvious stain appearing at the tip.

“Torpak!” roared one of the Orcs. “Stop it! Fight it!”

“Ignore him!” cried another, immediately charging towards the business man, orbs of shimmering darkness in his palms. “Get Harrow!”

Detective Keening, however, had realized something that Tyson Prowler had only brushed upon. He leveled his immense gun at the Orc and then angled it at the ground, where the man going.

CRACK-BOOM!

A sound like lightning and thunder simultaneously going off at the same time erupted from the barrel of his hand held railgun. The recoil was immense, forcing his arm back and he naturally had to bend his elbow to absorb the impact or risk dislocating his shoulder. The bullet slammed into the carpeted ground with enough force that a huge hole was immediately created in the floor. The Orc hadn’t been expecting the impact and dropped into the new opening with a cry, plummeting into the floor below.

Keening held his breath, waiting for any sign of toxins in his body.

Nothing came.

“It only activates if you harm them!” he bellowed. “Aim for other shit!”

Teddy Prowler grinned from ear to ear. “Hexing gold!” The Delver suddenly spun around, grabbed one of the meeting chairs and used his impressive strength to hurl it into the air. With one hand, he thrust a palm at the piece of furniture. His eyes sizzled with magic as a blast of pure force slammed into the chair. There was enough power to the blast that it sent the chair angling into the ceiling where it bounced off a fan and came crashing back down on another Orc. The Orc went down in a heap.

Within his latest ‘patient’, Tyson found himself in his own mental world of darkness. The touch of the Orc’s soul - this Torpak - was within reach.

“What now…?” he wondered aloud. Part of him was still simulating the Orc. From the feeling of hands against his own crotch, he could tell that Torpak had succumbed and was now throwing himself into the overwhelming sexual haze that he had inflicted. “He’s downed… I could leave and go to the next guy or…”

He turned to his right where the blazing green light of Torpak’s life started unfurling before him in a dizzying display of interconnected arcane runes. Early childhood, teenage year, adulthood, getting involved with GHM and then…

“The Inscription…” Tyson breathed.

Fiery green words reading ‘Don’t you know that you’re toxic’ cut off everything about Torpak beyond… a month ago. He wasn’t sure if that meant it was because Torpak was Inscribed a month ago or something else. Drawing from what Detective Keening had identified earlier, he perused Torpak’s soul as far as he could from before the Inscription was given to him. Once he committed what he could to memory, he then regarded the Inscription itself.

He interpreted it as Material… but it was not in the language spoken across the Central Material Plane.

It was… something else.

He just could not recognize it. Even as an avid student of magic from all Planes, he could not recognize the script.

A faint sizzling caught his attention. Off to the far left, just beyond the Inscription, he noticed a few, distant runes. A quick review revealed that they were recent. In fact, they were borne from a very minuscule fragments of guilt. Guilt over condemning one innocent Orcish bodyguard working for Harrow to death. That Orc that had hit Torpak in the other room over was going to die. Torpak felt some remorse over it. She was just doing her job but because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, she would die from the poison inflicted by the Inscription.

But that was not what Tyson noticed.

Ice crawled through his veins as these runes, these recordings in this man’s soul, were being consumed by the Inscription. Right before his eyes, this very recent recording was being drawn to the fiery, green wall of the alien words. They burned, scrambled and disappeared behind the sizzling runes.

“No…” he gasped, eyes widening in terror. “Oh no… I was wrong… I was so wrong!”

The Inscription was not protecting people’s souls from outside spying. It was outright consuming them. That recent memory outwardly struggled as it was being consumed. As pieces of it were being torn away, aspects were actively trying to rewrite itself to fit and explain the missing fragments. It was why soul surgery was always so tricky. Souls were dynamic. Adaptive like liquid but fragile like ice. Without the right expertise, any amateur could cause disparity and even animanecrosis.

He took a terrified step back, taking in the entirety of the Inscription.

“You’re… you’re not a wall protecting secrets…” he breathed. “You’re a monster consuming the soul of a victim.”

That meant that Albert Tien’s soul hadn’t been displaced somewhere.

It was gone… Completely consumed by the cancerous Inscription.

Another realization hit him.

Torpak’s soul could have been imprinted with an Inscription over a month ago. However, what he was seeing now - this loyalty to GHM, the past that had been written before it, could have all been part of the soul’s self-defense mechanism to repair itself after a portion of it had been consumed.

Was Torpak - clearly a name inspired from the Savage Lands - really Torpak or had he been someone else before being forced to live with his Inscription and turned into something - some_one_ - else?

“You poor soul,” Tyson sighed, shaking his head miserably. “How will you suffer? What will happen to you? Will you be completely consumed or will your soul start to degrade?”

His hands balled into fists.

Albert - or rather, Bert - came back into mind. A new, perfect, innocent soul. Little direction and purpose but renewed. Pure. Endless potential manifest.

Would it be better to suffer, thrashing against the Inscription while slowly being brainwashed into a devoted zombie for GHM…?

… or be reborn?

Tyson lifted a hand towards the Inscription.

“Sorry, Torpak,” he rumbled.

A lance of sizzling, pink and purple energies erupted from the darkness behind him, slamming into the Inscription. The magical curse writhed and wailed. Heat radiated from it. Angry green flames lashed out in fury. At the same time, Torpak cried out in unbridled pleasure, thrusting his hips into the air.

“Whoever you are,” Tyson said, sending another lance of pure bliss at the Inscription. “Whoever you had been, you’re dying. Turned into a tool for GHM’s machinations.”

The Inscription roiled in response.

“I can’t remove this Inscription from you,” he shouted. “But at the very least, I can give you a new start!”

A full barrage of pleasure spikes blasted at the Inscription, hammering it like thousands of arrows launched all at once. Like before, Tyson could briefly see beyond the Inscription; a shimmering landscape of… nothing. With clear eyes, he now knew that there was nothing beyond the Inscription because it had consumed everything about this man. He closed his eyes and rode the waves of pleasure back to the physical world as the Inscription exploded, hitting him once again with its transformative curse.

Torpak’s eyes snapped open, refocusing once more but this time, his irises were a bright yellow. For a second, his pupils were dilated and then they quickly contracted into slits. He arched his back, letting out a bellowing cry that stunned all the combatants around him. Hair follicles from his head abruptly fell off his head as his face began to elongate. Skin from his scalp hardened, gaining distinct patters that started to resemble scales. His roar started to get a hissing echo. His features became more and more reptilian. The tusks that made him an Orc grew bigger and bigger but so did his upper canines though they would easily slip back into fleshy sheathes.

His green flesh rippled. Scales began creeping down his neck, spreading over rapidly inflating shoulders and his arms. The vest he wore was forced to spread against an increasingly widening back before it split right down his spine. Scales spread down his arms but left his huge, bulging chest still made of Orcish-flesh. Arm muscles bulged and with one, simple flex, the remnants of his vest exploded off his shoulders, tumbling to the ground.

Huge, scale-covered hands groped for his crotch. There was not much movement needed before his dick exploded from his pants accompanied by a celebratory burst of thick, gooey precum. Another hissing roar came from the transforming Orc as a second cock surged out of his groin, strangely still resembling the uncut length of an Orc. No probing was needed as Torpak gripped both of his dicks and savagely began jerking his twin meats.

Already impressive thighs took advantage of the new opening in his pants to balloon out and explode with new size. The same green scales formed a protective out layer around his outer thighs and curled down past his knees and to his calves but, like before, left his inner thigh the same green flesh as his Orcish self. Any hair on his legs fell off with the only sign of mammalian follicles belonging to the thick, brown bush sprouting from his crotch.

With a final cry, a thick, reptilian tail exploded out of the base of his spine, thrashing around wildly. Torpak finally came, shooting out gallons upon gallons of cum that sailed through the air and came crashing upon the last remaining Orc from GHM. The stunned, unnamed Orc was blasted to the ground by the seemingly unrelenting torrent from his leader. He was blinded by the sticky, white seed…

… and then suddenly felt something creeping into him…

… followed by intense pleasure the likes of which he had never felt before.

The man let out a cry. What remained of his sensibilities tried to make him leave the shower of cum but he barely managed to lift a leg before he was completely overwhelmed by Tyson’s assault. The stream of white goo quickly became a flood of emerald green as Torpak physically ejaculated the Monster Maker out of his system and onto his ally. The unnamed Orc fell onto his stomach, convulsing madly while the loud, wet, squishing noises of the liquid Orc flooded into his ass like water down a drain.

The Shaper probed the Orc’s soul and, just like Torpak, he saw exactly the same thing. The Inscription was there, consuming everything. The soul of this man was warped to fit the cursed brand. The soul’s recent past had been destroyed. Everything else fed into the Inscription, defining the Orc and forcing them to become this fanatical follower of the Green Hand Movement.

Tyson fired wave after wave of psionic pleasure at the Inscription. Fury, disgust and sympathy colored the edges of his lances with sizzling lightning that flickered between red, green and blue. He didn’t let any of those emotions taint his assault, however. Focus was needed and, now that he was more properly armed and ready for the Inscription’s retaliation, he was ready for the waves of simulation that wracked his own metaphysical form as the Orc began to change, shift and transform.

Though he felt every sizzle of pleasure, every tingle of transformation and every bit of burning passion that came from the Orc as his ‘patient’ transformed, he was also keenly aware of its effects. This Orc lost all the hair on his body and his features quickly became reptilian, keeping the enlarged lower tusks. Some fragment of hope remained in Tyson as he paused briefly, watching the soul to see if any flicker of someone before the fanatic this man had become would start to wrench back control. The minute that long, muscular, scaly tail emerged from the Orc’s back, he came to another terrifying realization that disheartened him.

Tyson held on a moment in this metaphysical world within the Orc’s soul even as the man ejaculated with a hissing delight. Like Torpak, this Orc had transformed into a half-snake, half-Orc hybrid. A softer, emotional part of him had hoped that each victim’s transformation was unique and tailored to their experiences but each of these men held the same Inscription. The logical part of him braced him for the disheartening conclusion that they would all be transformed into the same being. Perhaps some variations but with the damage the Inscription had inflicted, there was no denying that this man had been shoehorned into the same fate.

Once he came to that conclusion, he allowed himself to ride the waves of pleasure out of the newly remade Orc. Terror and dismay over this conclusion shielded him from the ecstasy of transformation and orgasm, allowing him to keep his mind cold and chillingly clear. He sailed through the air in a wide arc and slammed into the floor as a large, green puddle.

As he began to reform, he sensed one Orc rousing from having been knocked back by a flying chair. His eyes locked on the man who lifted his gaze up to him.

“No…” pleaded the Orc, holding up a hand and then gripping the chair with the other. “No! Stay back!”

“Sorry,” Tyson rumbled, his voice sounding distant and hollow thanks to his voice box being made out of gelatinous, green goo. “It’s better this way.”

He lunged at the man, streaming forward like a green, liquid lance. The Orc desperately swung the chair he held at him but Tyson had anticipated the move. He split himself into six different streams, curving around the makeshift projectile and piercing the man. Two beams of goo ripped through the man’s tunic and immediately injected him into a pair of perky nipples. One surged down his mouth. Another two curled around his back and punctured a hole into the seat of his pants to immediately surge into his puckered asshole and purposefully press against his prostate. The last paused a few seconds to wait for the man’s sizable cock to become erect before seeping right through the fabric of his pants and diving into the Orc’s dick.

Again, it was the same.

An Inscription that had engraved itself into the man’s soul, defining him like a brand on cattle.

Again, he assaulted the wall of text without restraint.

The Orc dropped to his knees a moment later, gripping his tunic with both hands. Muscles along his arms bulged, scales erupting across his green skin and with a tremendous roar, he tore it clear off his chest as pectorals ballooned to twice their size. His features launched forward into a reptilian roar, fangs and tusks extended.

“Tyson!” Teddy cried, holding his hand up. “Stop!”

But Tyson didn’t stop. He urged the transformation on until the Orc came him out in a glorious torrent of seed.

“Stop!” his brother repeated. “We need one of them to tell us what GHM has planned!”

Tyson, reforming himself into his Orcish form, stormed over to the hole that Detective Knight had created. The last remaining member of the raiding party lay on the floor beneath them, dazed but still conscious.

“Their souls are broken, Teddy,” he rumbled, voice heavy with sorrow. “Damaged and redefined by the Inscription to the point that their bodies have changed to reflect it. I need to save them or they will die.”

“Save them after we interrogate them!”

Tyson shot his brother a piercing look. “I will not sacrifice my principles for your payday.”

Without another word, he poured down the hole in the floor and right onto the last, remaining Orc.

Your Orc Body and You For Young Men by Casey Harrow

Hair in places that didn’t have hair before. A strange smell coming off your armpits or genitals. Strange new feelings and a deeper voice? These are just some of the effects of puberty in young Orcish men such as yourselves. I am here to tell you that this is all natural and part of growing up.

My name is Casey Harrows and I will be your guide to your developing bodies as you, young men, enter adulthood in Your Orc Body and You for Young Men

First of all, let’s start with the obvious. Puberty hits everyone in different ways. Humans usually start puberty anywhere from nine to fourteen years of age and can last anywhere from two to five years. Elves, who have much longer lifespans, tend to start puberty anywhere from their fiftieth year but theirs goes on for nearly a quarter of a century. Dwarves is somewhere in the middle where they start growing their beards around their twentieth year and will experience the changes in their bodies for a decade.

Conversely, other species outside of the Central Material Plane experience these changes in vastly different ways. Elementals from either the Firmament or Living World tend to go through puberty in explosive bursts of elemental energies. The Fae of either the Fae Realm or Silhouette undergo grand metamorphoses that require particular rituals to be enacted before reaching completion meaning they can be stuck in a permanent state of puberty or prepubescence if they do not complete such tasks. Angels and Demons are perhaps the most widely varied as the conditions for their evolution into adulthood is closely connected to certain conditions in their souls. There are even some species that do not undergo any physical form of puberty such as the Infomorphs of Singularity or the Liches of the Deadlands.

My point is that you may feel strange and maybe even out of place but in this vast, multi-planar world of ours, you are not alone. Everything happening to your body is perfectly natural and is to be celebrated. You are becoming an adult.

Let’s start talking about what puberty is. Like most species from the Central Material Plane, puberty is the transformation your body undergoes as it transitions from childhood into adulthood; the change in your physical form as it gets ready to perform one of life’s most fundamental functions - reproduction. That is the primary function of puberty and everything happening to you can be contextualized as a means to make you more appealing to the opposite sex.

Generally, this means a few common things. Likely the first thing you will notice is the growth of hair over parts of your body that previously may not have had hair or if there was already hair there, it will grow thicker. For young men such as yourself, this usually means their chest, arms, legs and face, sometimes the back. Something every young male orc will see, however, is the growth of hair in common areas such as their armpits and genitals. Yes, you will start seeing hair ‘down there’. All of this is, as scientists believe, is an evolutionary trait developed to help you carry your pheromones or scent which would theoretically make you more appealing to your partner.

This a perfect segue into the next topic and change you may immediately notice as you change. Your body odor. It will drastically change as you enter adulthood. Again, this is meant to help you attract a mate. That is not to suggest that you should go around without any deodorant or cologne. Puberty is no excuse not to be hygienic, after all.

All of that is moot, however, without the major transformation that will occur in your body - your genitals. Setting aside modern perceptions on the relationship with penis or testicle size and fertility or manhood, every young man will experience development in their penises. You will start feeling it become a little more sensitive and your testicles will drop lower from your body. You will also start feeling a sensation that can only be considered pleasurable as your penis will periodically grow hard and very sensitive to the touch, an erection. Again, this is a perfectly natural state and something your body does regularly. While I will not go into detail about the ethics or morals of masturbation, I will say that this process activates the secondary function of your penis and that is the ejaculation of your DNA for the purposes of reproduction.

The development of your genitals comes with secondary effects as a result of the production of testosterone in your body. You might start experiencing acne all over your body, particularly your face. Trust me on this, never pick at your acne. I know it itches and societal norms frown upon such blemishes but it is perfectly normal. Even adults get them from time to time and you must remember that everyone went through puberty just like you. Not everyone has perfect skin from the onset and during your developing years, your skin is extremely sensitive to the transformations happening in your body hence the overabundance of acne. If you feel your acne is particularly severe, go see your dermatologist who specializes in Orcish skin for recommendations.

Something else that’ll happen is what is commonly known as a ‘growth spurt’. You will grow bigger and taller. Most boys will experience some form of muscular development and increase in height. This can sometimes lead to disorientation due to the sudden and rapid mass increase but that is all perfectly normal. In rare occasions, young Orcs may experience ‘growing pains’ as their rapidly developing bodies change so fast that it takes a bit of time for recovery.

One thing to note is that during this developmental period it is imperative that you pay attention to your posture. Our ancestors once had these big hunches where their heads slouched forward from their thick neck muscles. This has been associated with severe neck problems in adults further down the line and neurological damage as the spine is strained. Orcs are naturally more muscular than humans or elves and our skulls uniquely grow throughout puberty to accommodate for growing tusks. This puts extra weight on our necks and it becomes very easy to slouch forward due to that especially as the rest of the body catches up with development. So it is very important that, during this period, you keep your back straight, regularly check your posture and if you experience chronic headaches or notice yourself developing a slouch, go see your local doctor for an assessment. There is nothing wrong with having a back brace or a neck brace for a few months if it means you won’t be suffering from chronic migraines or reduced blood flow to your brain well into adulthood.

Which brings me to my favorite topic about puberty in young Orc men; the tusks. As you enter puberty, you will feel discomfort in your lower jaw. When we’re born, young Orcs, regardless of gender, generally don’t have very big tusks. Barely little fangs sticking out of our lower lips. But when you hit puberty, they will grow much bigger. So much so that they will force your teeth and jaw to grow bigger. Your entire skull will adjust to accommodate. You will experience dental realignment as your teeth naturally start moving to fit your much bigger tusks. This process can be painful for some individuals and can even cause discomfort when eating but it is all part of the process. It will also take some time to adjust to the extra weight and presence of these tusks. We don’t naturally see them in our field of vision so you need to be careful with them around especially if you are playing any contact sports or kissing your partner.

Just remember that if you feel any lingering discomfort, consult your local orthodontist with specialization in Orcish physiology. Not everyone needs to have braces to realign their tusks and teeth and you need to give yourself time to adjust to them. If you have genuine concerns, you can always visit any Harrows Dental Cosmetics clinic for a free consultation. Our specialists can help make sure your tusks are as good as they can be and can even make them bigger or smaller as the situation warrants.

And that about covers the basics of Orcish puberty in young men.

Next, we will go in-depth into hygiene for your new body…