The Last Satyr: The Company is Formed Part 1
Ronthiel

“I mean, you being the only one,” the elf unexpectedly told him. “Myself, I’ve got four older brothers. I’m the opposite of special. When your parents have five boys, by the fifth one, the excitement and the novelty wear off for them. I’m but one more to take care of.”

“You have four brothers?” the boy heard him with amazement.

Elves seldom have more than two children and many only one—and a few, none. There hadn’t been an elf born in the last thirteen years. As a result, their numbers were dwindling. Some said there would be a day when there would be no more elves at all.

The elf nodded.

“But I have something nobody else has,” he confided.

“What’s that?”

“A crow,” he said.

“A crow?” the boy gaped, wide eyed. “Let me see!”

The elf held up his hand and cawed. A moment later, a hoary blackbird landed on it. The boy had never seen one this close before. It was just about the ugliest looking bird he’d ever seen. He had to have it!

“What will you take in trade for it?” the boy asked.

“Nothing,” said the elf. “Having this crow is the only thing that makes me special. I’ll tell you what, though. I’ll let you hold him if you want.”

“Really?” the boy gasped.

He took him in his hands. “Does he peck?”

“Oh! No!” the elf said. “He’s friendly, can repeat words and even carry messages. He’s pretty smart, really.”

“So are you headed home now?” the boy wanted to know, examining the bird.

“Yes. It will be dark soon. I need to be home by then. I came by to visit a cousin here. You know, keeping up relations.”

No, the goat boy did not know about relatives when he had none to keep, but he pretended to know by nodding and then asked.

“How’d you get the crow?”

“Trapped it. Crows aren’t very special to elves, so it was no big deal. We’re pretty certain they’re creatures of the Fell.”

The term “Fell” referred to the ancient “fallen keepers”. They had sired pretty much everything bad and disgusting around here.

“So why don’t I see more of you at school?” the elf asked him.

“I don’t know,” the boy answered. “Maybe because I’m not an elf and I’ve got no friends there.”

“What? I’m not a friend?”

“Well, except you,” the goat boy told him.

“As you said, you’re not an elf,” the other boy said with an understanding smile. “That makes elf school a lot harder, but I can teach you how to listen for and how to see things.”

“How can you teach me to see like an elf?”

“I didn’t say I could teach you how to see like an elf. I said I could teach you how to see things,” he said. “There’s a difference.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The trick to seeing something,” the elf offered, “is to see it move. It doesn’t matter how well camouflaged it is or how well it blends in if, when it moves, you can see it. So just stare and watch one spot and wait for something to move. That’s when you hit it with your arrow.”

“I’m not very good with a bow,” the boy admitted.

“I can teach that to you, too. So what can you teach me?”

The boy thought about that. The thing he did best was to steal, but he didn’t think that would impress the elf lad very much, so he went to his last two remaining talents.

“I can dance and play the flute.”

The elf nodded.

“Okay. Flute’s a fair trade. What’s your name, boy?”

“That is my name.”

“What is?”

“Boy,” he told him. “Or goat boy.”

No one knew his real name, and the elves were reluctant to give him one of their own when they thought another group of satyrs might come along and replace him and take him back and give him a real satyr name. Thus, they just called him “boy” or, if displeased, “goat boy” which meant mostly “goat boy”.

“I wondered why the schoolteacher always called you that,” the elf said. “My name’s Ronthiel.”

“Nice to meet you,” the boy said, handing him back his bird. “I like your pet.”

“I do too,” Ronthiel agreed before his expression turned knowing interest. “But I’ve heard you’ve got a pet that tops anything.”

“What’s that?”

“I hear you’ve got a drider,” the other shared in a low voice. “Is it true?”

There was a deathly still pause between them. There was not much cause to talk about driders, especially amongst elves. The boy cast his eyes about to be sure that no one heard before he answered.

“She’s a friend,” the boy finally shook his head. “She’s not a pet.”

“No drider is a friend,” Ronthiel corrected him. “She’s of the Fell, same as this crow. If you want to see the school teachers lay an egg, just tell them you know a drider.”

“How do you know about my drider?”

“The faeries talk,” Ronthiel stated, his eyes to his. “We don’t normally listen because all they want to talk about is stealing Old Joe’s gold, but some talk about you and your drider. That sure beats a crow!”

They were interrupted by yet another elf boy also late in heading home on the shadowy forest trail. He was a shade shorter than the boy with pale skin and dressed in such a fine, dark green it was almost black.

“Ah!” he declared of them, approaching. “You’re the goat boy who asks to attend school but who then never shows up. How embarrassing that must be for you? Or is it your own family’s abandoning you that is the more embarrassing?”

“Who are you?” the boy warily asked, faintly recognizing him from school.

“You don’t know me? Why am I not surprised?” the other scoffed. “Maybe it’s because I’m not dressed in five pairs of hand-me-downs like Ronthiel here or that I’m not a drider like your other friends?”

A new-comer of any age was always an impressive curiosity in the village and this was his second today. Yet this elf seemed haughty and arrogant. Dressed in a hooded robe of the sort that priests and the elders wore, he was the son of someone important and had a glorified air about him that ate into the boy’s vitals. And he had white hair! Only a drow had white hair. The more he stared at the elf, the more he realized he was a splendid marvel and obviously stuck up about it.

“What’s the matter, you thieving goat boy? Are you still claiming you don’t know me?”

The boy instantly disliked the other and interpreted this as a challenge. No one called him a “thief”, even though he was one, and they only called him “goat boy” with derision. So he was immediately on guard for trouble.

“Maybe,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Draugo,” the elf proudly answered, “My name is Draugo.”

The name “Draugo” meant wolf: his full first name would be Draugon or “male wolf” but that would sound too much like “dragon” so they dropped the last letter.

“Draugo?” the boy gasped, raising his eyebrows in stunned awe. “You mean the honest-to-god, Draugo?”

“That’s right,” the other proudly boasted.

“You mean the one and only, real Draugo?” the boy repeated, eyes widening with even more awe.

“The one.” The corners of Draugo’s lips curled upward, his eyes brightening in triumph as he met the boy’s gaze. It was a subtle reaction, but his pleased expression spoke volumes about his pride to be so recognized.

“Never heard of you,” the boy shrugged indifferently.

Those were fighting words.