They say children learn fast.
Whoever "they" are, I'd like to formally apologize for doubting them.
A year passed since I first found the study-room. I was four now, technically, in birth-month years. See, in this world, birthdays weren't a one-day celebration. No cakes or balloons on a specific day. Instead, the whole month you were born in was your time to shine.
Birth-months.
It's a strange tradition, but honestly? I kind of liked it. I didn't have to awkwardly smile through one day but I could awkwardly exist for thirty, although, it only apply to children fourteen years or below. I recently found out being fifteen is the adult age.
And when you get to adulthood, your birth-months get reduced to birthdays.
During this past year, I'd made it a habit to sneak into the study room at every opportunity. Eventually, my parents caught on. But instead of scolding me, they started reading to me every night. My mother, Reyna, had a melodic voice, one that made even plant encyclopedias sound like lullabies. My father, Thorskil, read like he was trying to prep me for dramatic battle, every pause dramatic, every noun a declaration.
Night after night, they introduced me to the building blocks of language. And piece by piece, I began to understand. One word became two. Two became sentences. Eventually, I didn't need their help to understand the books I'd been obsessing over.
Since there's literally nothing to do here, Books are the only ones that makes my interest sparks.
And finally, after nearly a year of struggling through scribbled, unfamiliar letters, I closed the last page of the hunter's guide — The first book I read in the study-room.
It wasn't anything fancy. Just a practical guide on surviving the wilderness. Like, how to track beasts, where to scavenge tools, how to recognize edible herbs versus the ones that made your insides twist in regrettable ways. It talked about long-distance travel, how to set up camp, and how to treat wounds with bark and moss. Practical stuff.
Apparently, that was just Volume 1.
Back in my old world, adventurer guilds were long gone. They'd been a romanticized piece of history. Peace had ruled long enough that the need for blade-wielding rogues and monster-hunting mercenaries had faded into fiction. But here... they were very much alive.
The last page of the book wasn't another lesson or checklist. It was something else entirely.
A map..?
I sat there, cross-legged on the creaky wooden floor, the morning light streaming through the open window, and stared at it.
It wasn't Earth.
At least, not the Earth I knew.
The continents were alien in shape. Vast landmasses that twisted like broken puzzle pieces. A northern continent resembled a crescent moon split by a dark mountain range. To the west, another continent looked jagged and uneven, split into two by a long winding inland sea. The southern hemisphere was dominated by a ring of isles and a massive inland desert surrounded by tropical coasts.
There was no sign of familiar names. No "America." No "Europe." No "Asia." Instead, names like Varellos, Zintar, Querradia, Template and The Spine of Gorrath sprawled across parchment in ornate script.
I tilted my head, squinting.
Could this be another planet?
That thought had always lingered since I woke up as a baby with white hair and yellow eyes, surrounded by fantasy-looking people. Maybe I was reincarnated in a completely different world?
Or maybe...
Maybe this world came before. The book mentioned Beastfolk & Beastkin,[1] so naturally, I would wonder if this world is the far past of my modern time.
It was a stupid thought, and I brushed it aside. No tectonic shift could transform this map into the one I knew. Right?
I sighed, letting the idea drift away with the breeze slipping in through the window. I had more important things to think about anyway. Like the three other books collecting dust in this study room. If one book taught me how to skin a squirrel and pitch a tent, then who knew what secrets the rest held?
I turned away from the map, wiping the sweat off my palms on my trousers. My eyes landed on the red leather-bound book. The spine was worn, its color faded like old wine. Dust clung to it like it hadn't been touched in years. I reached for it with both hands, as if expecting it to whisper forbidden secrets the moment I touched it.
I hummed, a habit I'd picked up lately, something to fill the silence as I walked to the desk near the window. Light spilled in from the outside and bathed my snow-white hair, giving the room an almost ethereal glow.
I traced my finger across the cover.
"Source of Power," I read aloud.
And just below the title, in fancy, inky letters: "Written by Kalaum Jade."
Interesting.
I tilted my head. That name had some weight to it. Or flair, at the very least. Sounded like a wizard who walked around with glowing eyes and a staff made from a dragon's spine.
With mild anticipation, I cracked the book open.
Thwip!
A pebble struck the top of my head.
"Ow!" I rubbed the spot and shot an annoyed glance out the window.
Outside, in the far green patch of the farm, Lyra and her little crew of chaos were running around. They were swinging sticks, tossing rocks, and shouting things that only made sense if your brain was still powered by candy.
Apparently, my sister had recently unlocked her Aura.
Aura: a protective barrier granted by the so-called "God of Shield," an entity said to have bathed the world in light, giving humans a divine defense against the world's dangers.
Humans only.
Other races, elves, dwarves, beastkin, got the short end of the stick on that one. Lucky me, I was at least biologically human. Thematically, anyway.
I hadn't unlocked mine yet. Maybe in a few years... if I'm lucky. If not, well... maybe I'd learn to run really fast.
One of Lyra's friends pointed up toward the window.
Oh no.
Her entire group turned their heads in unison, Lyra too landed her eyes right at me.
"Shit."
My heart skipped. I yanked my head back into the room like a guilty squirrel caught in a bird feeder.
I sat down, muttering, "They saw me." A sigh escaped me.
I still hadn't gotten over the social anxiety. You'd think dying once would make this easier. Apparently not.
Whatever. Focus. Book. Study.
I opened the red leather tome and began to read.
And then I stopped.
...Magic?
My eyebrows rose.
Magic exists here?
I flipped the next page. Then the next.
Each paragraph peeled back layers of knowledge I only ever read in fiction.
The book detailed that Mana exists in everything. Not just humans but everything! Even rocks, apparently. And yes, even annoying little sisters.
Everyone could use magic to some degree, but the ability to control it depended on the person's mana capacity, and that could grow over time with training.
My mind sparked with possibilities.
Then came the page I didn't expect: > The Distinction Between Aura and Mana
I leaned forward.
> "Though both energies may reside in humans, Aura and Mana are fundamentally different. Aura is protective. It shields, bolsters, and sustains the body, granted by divine design. Mana, however, is raw. It is elemental, shaping the world, casting spells, forging glyphs. One is sacred. The other is infinite."
My hands trembled slightly as I turned the page.
> "With advanced knowledge, some have even learned to layer Mana atop Aura—creating what is sometimes called a double barrier. A shield of divine origin, backed by a force of nature."
"OOOOHH!"
I couldn't help the sound that escaped me, practically vibrating with excitement.
This was the kind of stuff I used to devour in light novels. But this wasn't fiction anymore. This was real.
A small smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.
This world might not have vending machines or video games. But it had magic.
And I was just getting started.
***
A few minutes later...
"EURGHHHH!"
Veins bulged on my neck like overinflated worms as I stood there, arm stretched forward, face scrunched like I was trying to sneeze out a fireball.
"C-C'MONNN!" I shouted, voice cracking. "MAGICC...!"
Nothing.
Not even a puff of smoke.
Just silence and the slight sound of birds chirping outside, mocking me.
Eventually, I slumped into the chair, panting dramatically like I'd just run a marathon.
"...Damn," I muttered. My hand lowered as I stared at my palm, willing it to glow or spark or do something cool.
Nope. Still just a kid's hand. Slightly sweaty now.
"Magic, huh?"
I turned back to the book, sighing, flipping another page. And that's when I saw it.
> "In order to guide one's Mana, it must be directed — typically through an incantation or spell phrase, especially for beginners."
"Huh?" I blinked. "Saying the spell?"
I tilted my head.
That was the missing piece? I thought.
"...Okay then."
I lowered the book slightly, resting it on my lap, the top of the leather-bound cover leaning against the desk's edge to keep it open. I scanned for something easy. The section was titled:
Beginner Spells: Natural Affinities
Perfect. I wasn't ready to summon a firestorm or conjure lightning just yet. Let's start small.
"Verdant Touch" – a basic Wood spell that encourages growth or minor plant movement on any wood. Good for testing mana flow and affinity with nature-type elements.
I hummed, then my eyes moved to the wooden floor.
"Hmmm... Alright."
I took a breath. I held out my hand again, more dignified this time. Less screaming.
"Alright... 'Verdant Touch,'" I whispered, "bring forth nature's gentle push."
I peeked one eye open.
Still nothing.
Okay... Maybe I needed more flair?
I stood up dramatically, extended both arms this time, and tried again with as much elegance as a four-year-old in oversized socks could muster:
"Oh verdant winds and whispers of the woods, heed my call and answer with growth, Verdant Touch!"
...
A leaf outside wiggled.
Because of the wind.
Probably.
I squinted. "...Was that me?"
The tree rustled.
"...Nope, definitely just wind."
I slumped back down, flopping into the chair with the weight of magical disappointment. "Ugh. Even my chants sound like bad poetry."
I glanced down at the book, then whispered bitterly, "You could've at least sparked a flower or something. Rude."
Determined, I went down the list of beginner spells, one after another.
"Verdant Touch."
"Kindle Spark."
"Stone Set."
"Gentle Breeze."
Each chant sounded more desperate than the last, like I was reciting discount poetry under pressure.
Each failure added another drop to the bucket of frustration welling up inside me.
"Wisp of light, show your might!"
Nothing.
"Earth below, rise and grow!"
Still nothing.
"Fire burn and—okay, I'm surrounded with wood. Maybe no fire magic." I sighed.
Eventually, I stopped, slumping over the desk. My breathing was shallow, my arms limp. The book lay open, taunting me with spells I couldn't cast. My white hair stuck to my forehead from sweat and stubbornness.
I stared at my empty palm.
"...Maybe I really can't do this."
That's when the thought crept in—slow, cruel, and sharp like a splinter under skin.
Of course you can't.
You weren't special back then, remember?
Just some useless, middle-aged loser hiding in his room, wasting away playing games and reading novels, while the world moved on without you.
Why would that change now?
I bit the inside of my cheek. My chest ached in that familiar way—not from the magic, but from me.
I didn't want to be that person again.
"I don't want to be that same loser again," I muttered under my breath.
"HEY!"
"WAAAH—!" I yelped, nearly jumping out of the chair. My knee smacked the underside of the desk, the book went flying up like it was trying to escape the scene entirely, and I flailed like a startled squirrel.
I spun around, heart hammering and there was Lyra, perched on the windowsill like some sort of tiny goblin spy.
She grinned, resting her chin on the sill. "Gotcha."
"Wh—What are you doing?! You scared the mittens out of me!"
She laughed. "You were so into whatever you were doing, I had to climb up just to see what it was!"
I blinked. "Wait—you climbed up here?! How?!"
She pointed behind her with her thumb. "Used the trellis. Easy."
I peeked out the window. The trellis was barely wide enough to fit a cat, let alone a eight-year-old lunatic.
"You're insane."
"And you talk to books."
"...Touché."
She giggled, "Don't know what that means, but it sounds funny."
Her eyes flicking toward the pages scattered across the desk. "You trying magic?"
"...Yes," I muttered, cheeks heating.
"Cool! Did you explode anything?"
"No."
"Did you almost explode anything?"
"Also no."
"Lame."
"Thanks, sis."
Then, she grinned wide. The kind of grin that made me nervous.
"How about we try something?" she said, practically bouncing on the windowsill. "Something your amazing big sister just unlocked."
"...You mean Aura?"
"Yep! Wanna get it early like me?"
I blinked. "You'll teach me how to unlock it?"
"Of course!" she beamed, placing both hands on her hips with a prideful pose. "I got mine when one of my underlings tried to bean me with a rock the size of a potato. Figured you get Aura when your life flashes before your eyes or something."
And with underlings, she meant her friends.
"...Huh." I tilted my head. "That's... ominously specific."
"It worked!" she said, then leaned in closer with a devilish twinkle in her yellow eyes. "Which is why..."
Before I could finish processing the threat level, her hands shot out.
She grabbed me by the collar.
"Wait, wha—?"
"That's why I'm gonna throw you out the window now!"
WHAT—
"No, WAIT—!"
She didn't hesitate.
With the reckless confidence of a lunatic child with no fear of consequence, she launched us both backward off the second-story windowsill.
"LYRAAA!!!"
"TRUST THE LIGHT OF THE GOD OF SHIELD!" she cackled as the wind howled past us. "ARM TWIST SLAM!"
"AHHHHHHHH—!"
Crack.
***
My arm was broken.
I mean really broken. Like, bent-in-a-way-arms-shouldn't kind of broken.
The pain was still throbbing, sharp and hot, radiating all the way to my fingertips. Hurts like hell. I cried from the pain, damn it! I sat on a stool in the kitchen, cradling my right arm with the other as I bit down on a leather strap my father gave me.
Thorskil, my father, stood over me, his face stoic and focused but I could tell by the twitch in his brow he was worried.
"You ready?" he grunted.
I gave a weak thumbs up with my left hand.
Thorskil didn't know any healing magic. None of us did. Our family line was about as magical as a brick. He was a warrior, trained in blades, fists, and techniques. My mother, Reyna, was from a barbarian tribe where solving problems involved more muscles and less magic. And Lyra... well, she was about to get disowned.
So when it came to setting a bone, my father did it the old-fashioned way, with sticks, clay, and pain.
Thorskil carefully aligned my broken arm, then wrapped a pair of stripped branches along the forearm like a brace, securing them with cloth soaked in boiled herbs. I winced with every shift, sweat trickling down my face.
"You're doing good," he said quietly. "Almost done."
Then came the clay.
He scooped a chunk of it from a bowl beside the fire, still warm and soft, and began packing it around the brace. The clay would dry and harden by morning, forming a solid cast to keep everything in place. A trick he learned from a traveling hunter, apparently.
Primitive? Absolutely. But it does the job done.
While Thorskil worked, Reyna's voice echoed from the next room.
"YOU WHAT?!"
Lyra's muffled response came somewhere between a defensive whine and a nervous laugh.
"It was just a little fall—"
"A LITTLE FALL? From the SECOND FLOOR?! Lyra, you absolute rock-headed—WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!"
"She wanted to help me awaken my Aura..." I muttered around the leather strap.
Thorskil's lips twitched. A dangerous hint of amusement. "Well. If pain really was the trigger, you might have awakened it and passed out from shock at the same time."
From the other room, more shouting.
"You're grounded for the entire birth month! No sweets, no playing outside, no cuddling with cats privileges—!"
"BUT MOM!"
"And don't you 'but Mom' me, young lady! Next time you want to help your brother unlock Aura, TRY NOT TO COMMIT MANSLAUGHTER!"
I chuckled weakly. Which hurt. A lot.
My father looked down at me once he finished the cast and adjusted the final wrap. "That'll hold. We'll get an actual healer from town tomorrow. Until then, try not to fall off any more buildings."
"Noted," I groaned.
Reyna stormed into the room a moment later, her braided hair practically crackling with fury, arms crossed, biceps bulging as she glared at Lyra, who was now sulking behind her, arms folded, guilt all over her face.
My mother turned her gaze to me, instantly softening.
"Oh Kyro, my baby," she said, crouching to eye level, carefully avoiding the arm. "Are you okay? Do you need anything? Water? Soup? A punching bag with your sister's face on it?"
"I'm fine..." I said. "Just... hurts."
"I bet it does. Don't worry. We'll take care of you. You're tougher than you look, though. Like your dad." She smiled, then shot a glare over her shoulder. "Unlike some people."
"I SAID I WAS SORRY!" Lyra huffed.
"You're lucky you both didn't die! If you had, I would've dragged you back to life just to ground you harder!"
"...You're scary when you're mad, mom.." Lyra muttered.
"And you're lucky that's all I am."
I leaned back against the wall, exhaustion washing over me. The pain was dull now. Manageable. And despite everything, despite the screaming, the pain, the impromptu flight test, I felt... okay.
Maybe... just maybe, I felt a little closer to them. A little more at home.
I glanced down at my arm, wrapped in bark, hardened with clay, and tied together with rough cloth. Primitive, but it held. Then I stared up at the wooden ceiling above me.
Adventurers' Guilds existed in the stories and scraps of history from my old life. But magic? Those were bedtime myths and game mechanics, never something anyone actually believed in. And now... now I live in a world where those things are real. Tangible. As real as the sharp throb in my broken arm.
Then I looked at my free hand.
And about Aura.. this is my first time actually hearing anything like this. Separate system, completely independent of mana. Interesting.
Still, the fact that they exist, that I could reach them, it lit something inside me.
Magic was real.
Aura was real.
And I could have both.
*Thorskil*
The dirt roads of Ytval[2] Village crunched beneath my boots, the weight of urgency pressing heavier than my worn-out armor. My stride was wide, fast-- No, borderline reckless as I marched toward home. The sun was high, beating down on my back, but I barely noticed. My boy was hurt. His arm.. Godsdamn it, his arm was broken clean from a fall that should never have happened.
And trailing behind me, brushing dust from his long dark violet coat and adjusting his glasses with a sigh that somehow sounded amused, was Damian Joos. A former battle-mage, occasional pain in my ass, and one of the last friends I still kept from my old adventuring days.
"Do all your village paths have this much dust, or is this a special welcome just for me?" he drawled, shaking out the hem of his cloak.
"You're lucky I didn't carry you by the collar," I muttered without looking back. "You were in the area. I don't believe in luck."
"Ah, yes. Only reckless timing and fatherly panic."
I didn't have time for banter, but gods, it helped to hear his voice. The man was irritating, smug, and way too confident in his magic. But he was a good mage. More importantly, he was available.
Most healers were days away, deep in the heart of the capital or stationed in major cities. But Ytval? We were a speck on the border of the Kingdom of Template.
The nearest healer from here was actually at the City of Fritz. Even there, the prices were outrageously high. If a child got sick or hurt out here, you prayed they could hold out until someone passed through with skill... or didn't die waiting.
Damian had just so happened to be passing by, on some pointless "magical ingredient tour," as he called it. I didn't even ask. I just grabbed him.
Now we were here.
I pushed the gate open. The wood creaked on the hinges, and Damian looked up at the modest farmhouse with one raised brow.
"Homey," he said. "Charming. Slightly crooked."
"Still sturdier than your spells," I shot back.
The front door slammed open before I could reach it.
"Thors!" Reyna's voice was sharp. The kind of sharp that could split stone. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed and eyes aflame. "You better have someone with magic or I swear I'm going to throttle that boy's other arm just for balance!"
"Nice to see you too, Reyna," Damian said brightly as he stepped forward. "Still terrifying. Love that."
Her gaze flicked to him. "Oh gods. It's you."
"You remember!" he said with mock joy.
I let out a breath. This was familiar. Chaos, heat, urgency... but it was still home. And Kyro was inside.
We stepped into the house. The smell of clay and sweat still hung faintly in the air from the makeshift binding I'd done earlier. I saw my son lying quietly on the bed, his pale hair half-matted with sweat, his bandaged arm resting stiffly at his side. He blinked at us as we entered, trying to sit up.
"Don't move," I ordered softly.
He froze.
Damian clicked his tongue as he knelt beside the bed, pulling his leather bag forward and laying out a few vials and runes.
"Clay cast, bark frame, cloth wrap," he muttered while inspecting it. "You did a good job." He glanced up at me. "But you're lucky it wasn't a worse break."
I grunted. "Can you fix it?"
"Mostly," Damian said. "I'm no High Healer, but I can mend the bone enough that the rest can recover naturally. He'll still need time. But he'll keep the arm, and it won't be crooked."
Reyna let out a breath of relief and leaned against the wall. Her arms now hung loosely at her sides.
"Do it," I said.
Damian nodded. He muttered the incantations under his breath, his hands glowing with a pale green light. It wasn't the blinding white of divine healing—just a softer, humbler magic. But it would do.
As he began, I knelt by Kyro's side, placing a hand gently on his good shoulder.
"You'll be alright, son," I said. "You'll heal."
Kyro looked up at me. Nervous, but nodding. Brave, like his mother. Stubborn, like me.
*Kyro*
I lay still as a rock, stiff as stone, while the mage worked his spell over me. My arm—my broken arm—was wrapped in light. Not a blinding, holy glow like I'd seen in movies or imagined in fantasy books, but a soft, pulsing warmth. Like sunlight filtered through tree leaves.
And I could feel it.
The bone was mending. Shifting. Re-aligning itself beneath skin and clay. It didn't hurt. Not exactly. But it felt strange. Like a distant tickle inside my arm that I couldn't scratch, mixed with a soft hum that echoed inside my bones.
Weirdest sensation I've ever had.
My eyes flicked up to the man doing it. This so-called magician with his rolled sleeves, faintly glowing hands, and a calm expression like healing broken limbs was just another Tuesday.
My lips moved before I could stop them.
"...Is that really magic?"
Damian's fingers paused for only a moment, then resumed as he let out a thoughtful hum.
"You're not screaming in pain, so yes. Definitely magic," he said, eyes still on my arm. "Why? Doesn't look magical enough for you?"
I blinked. "Well... it's not sparkly."
He chuckled softly. "Sparkles are expensive."
That got a small laugh out of me, even as I flinched slightly from another odd shifting inside my arm. "So... what is it then? Like, how does it work?"
Damian glanced at me for a beat, then refocused on the glowing patterns along my skin. "That's a big question for a kid with a bone trying to remember where it belongs."
"I'm just curious," I mumbled, staring at my arm in fascination. "No one around here talks about magic. Not real magic. I mean, I know what books say, but..." I looked at him again. "You are the first person I've ever seen do it."
"Huh," he said, his voice dropping a little in thought. "That's kind of sad."
I frowned. "Why?"
"Because it's a wonderful thing," he replied, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. "And if I were the only person you ever saw do it, that'd be a waste."
My eyes widened a bit. "Can anyone learn it?"
"Most people can. Not all, but most. You need talent, focus, and a whole lot of stubbornness," he said, emphasizing the last word with a glance at me. "Magic's like... talking to the world. But in its own language. If you learn how to listen, and learn how to speak it back, it responds."
"Like... a conversation?"
"Exactly." He nodded. "Except instead of 'hello,' you say something like 'res mendari' and the world fixes a snapped bone."
"Is that what you just said?! Y-you know, the spell?!"
"Not telling," he smirked.
"Aw, come on! I'll write it down!"
"Still no. It's one thing to say the words, kid. It's another thing entirely to mean them." He tapped the side of his temple. "Intent matters. Especially when you're telling reality what to do."
I blinked, absorbing that.
Magic was more than waving hands and shouting words. You had to mean it?
I looked back at my arm. The light was fading now. The ache was dull, but the pain was gone. I could feel the difference. The bone... not completely healed, but it was so much better than before.
"...That was amazing," I whispered.
Damian rose to his feet, brushing the dust from his coat like this was just another village chore. "Thanks, kid. Be careful next time, yeah?"
I gave him a quiet nod, still staring at my now-healed arm. I flexed my fingers like I wasn't sure if they were mine anymore.
Behind us, both my parents let out a long, relieved sigh. One of those heavy, bone-deep breaths that only come after fear has loosened its grip.
Reyna immediately moved forward to thank Damian, pressing a leather pouch into his hand. "You have our deepest thanks," she said, even offering a rare nod of respect. "And... sorry for the yelling earlier."
He smirked. "Trust me, I've heard louder. You should hear some of the nobles in the capital. Makes a banshee sound polite."
Thorskil stepped up next, clapping Damian on the back. "So what exactly did you do, you conjuring twiggler?"
Damian grinned. "Oh, you know. Poured mana into the wound. Made sure the bone stopped sulking and got back into place."
"Poured mana..." I repeated under my breath, eyes wide. That tingling sensation. That shifting heat. That hum under my skin.
So that's what mana feels like.
I filed it away deep in my mind. Something important. Something I'd want to try replicating someday.
"Here," Damian said suddenly, turning to me and reaching into his coat. "Payment for being my quietest patient this week."
He pulled out a wrapped piece of candy—bright orange with a gold stripe—and dropped it into my palm. "Made it myself."
My eyes lit up. "You make candy too?"
"Alchemy's not just for potions," he said with a wink. "Besides, chocolate's better than half the medicine out there."
I grinned, already unwrapping it. "Tastes like orange!"
"Good," Damian nodded, ruffling my hair before heading toward the door. "That batch was supposed to taste like cinnamon."
"Wait, what?!"
He just waved without turning back. "Have a great day, kid."
As the door swung closed behind him, the house returned to its usual stillness, save for the faint creak of wood above.
Unbeknownst to me, a pair of sharp eyes glared down from the top of the stairs.
Lyra crouched on the second-floor landing, gripping the railing tightly as she watched Damian disappear down the path through the window.
She scrunched her nose. Her voice was low, a grumble under her breath.
"Magic is for hippies..."
And though she wouldn't admit it out loud, something twisted in her chest. A pang she didn't quite understand. She didn't like seeing her little brother get so much attention.
[End]
[1] Difference explaination:
In this world, Beastkin, and Beastfolk are completely different species.
Beastkin are what people typically referred to Demi-humans where most parts are humans and showed minor signs of Animal traits.
While Beastfolk are those people who had their entire body look like an animal. An example of which are Orcs, Centaurs, and I'll be including Ogres here too because of how abnormally huge they are... And their skins are light-blue.
[2] Ytval Pronounciation: Yi-it va-l