Satyr: Horn, Dust, and Moonlit Oaths
Fierce, untamed, and bound by tradition, the Satyr are a people of the wilds, thriving where others would falter. Their clans roam the craggy foothills and arid valleys, moving with the rhythm of the land, guided by instinct and ancestral law. Each tribe is a world unto itself—some fiercely territorial, others welcoming to those who prove their worth. Strength is revered, but survival is the true measure of wisdom, and leadership is not given by birthright, but by deeds.
To outsiders, they are unpredictable, their ways shrouded in mystery and myth. Some see them as raiders, others as guardians of lands long forgotten. The truth is more complex. Bound by loyalty to their kin and the spirits of the land, the Satyr walk a path of both war and celebration, where every hunt, every battle, and every dance beneath the moon carries the weight of their history.
His hooves struck stone as he stalked toward the altar, blood steaming on his blade. A priest of the Light whimpered, cornered and trembling.
Kregath bared his fangs. "No sermons," he spat, lifting his swords "Only screams."
The strike echoed like thunder through the hollowed bones of the valley.
She dragged her fingers along the bark of a twisted tree, sparks crackling in her wake. "The wind’s different here," she muttered. "Thicker. Like it’s hiding something." Her gaze snapped toward you, too sharp to be playful. "Keep your voice down. Not everything in these woods is dead—and some things prefer you forget they ever were."
He crouched by the stream, washing blood from his hands like it mattered. "She won’t listen," he muttered. "Says I burned it all. Maybe she’s right." His eyes flicked toward the trees. "But the fire wasn’t mine alone." He stood slowly, breath catching. "You think she’ll hear me if you ask?"
"Nothing but rock and dust." The words are bitter, stolen by the howling wind. "And yet we’re still here." A knowing glance, a steady step forward, boot against loose stone. The valley does not welcome, nor does it warn. It simply watches, waiting to see who will endure—and who will be lost to the dust.
Roaming free and bound by tradition, the Satyr endure where others fall.
