The Last Satyr: The Company is Formed Part 1
Dawn

It was the start of a new day and soon to become a new life for the boys.

As the sun appeared at dawn, the birds became active and called to one another and fluttered overhead, waking the boys. There was still a bit of a cool air about but, gradually, the sun warmed them as they rose. They were up early as the dawn’s light would not yet have waked those who live inside human houses, elf trees, or the mines of the dwarves. The boy threw in his fishing line and presently hooked a big catfish on a worm and then another. These they cooked for breakfast, along with some bird eggs in the bacon's grease. The savory smell of the bacon alone made them famished for a delicious breakfast. The taste of the freshly caught fish, the eggs combined with the lingering flavors of last night’s bacon, painted smiles on their faces. No words were needed to convey their shared realization—this was a breakfast unlike any other. Afterward, they quickly put out their campfire, lest anyone see the smoke from Linthiel and know they were there, and then ran down from the trees to the sand bar, where the water was warmest. Here, the boys enjoyed a good naked swim and splash in the river, having both fun and rinsing themselves of the telltale odor of campfire smoke at the same time.

Afterward, the boys loaded up the raft and returned from the island, all but Joe having school. Before leaving, they buried their weapons on the island such that they were sure (according to the dwarf) that not even an elf could replace them (A false assumption but one that dwarves all love to believe.). They would come back for them, they declared when they were ready.

From within the elder elf’s meeting tree's chamber, Graybeard thumped his staff on the floor for the other's attention.

“As we speak,” he said, “the drow plot against you!”

“Plot against us?” Duravane repeated, pouring the ancient keeper a mug of wine. “What evidence do you have you of this?”

“None that would persuade you,” Graybeard replied. “For you think you are much too wise to listen to an old fool.”

“So how am I to believe you?”

“You aren’t and you wouldn’t even if you could,” stated Graybeard. “An elf’s mind is only set upon replaceing evidence that supports his personal opinions and nothing else. You know that as much as I.”

“You sound as if you replace it a fault in us.”

“I do! And so once did thousands of satyrs. But now your only ally of the Second War is gone. So that leaves me as your only critic.”

“The satyrs were never our allies in the Second War,” Duravane pointed out.

“You mean you were never the allies of the satyrs in the Second War,” Graybeard corrected him. “They fought alone for you!”

“They fought by way of their own decision. We made no requests for them to do so.”

“I did. I made several. Sar answered them. It was a noble thing he did. Their sacrifices for you were enormous. And how did you repay them? You let the drow take them and you don’t even teach the Second War in your schools!”

“It’s not our war to teach.”

“It was fought for you!”

“Well,” Duravane said. “It may surprise you to learn, but this year, the Second War was taught in our schools.”

“It does not surprise me, dear elder, because the goat boy’s aunt requested that it be taught!”

“So what is it you demand of us now—a third war? Are the Kindred Wars to be fought all over again?”

“If I could move you to do so—yes,” answered Graybeard. “But we both know I can’t. I tried that in the Second War and I failed just as I would fail in such a request now.”

“If you consider failure your only outcome, why are you here?”

“To give you an alternative,” said Graybeard. “If you will not fight for yourselves, replace others to fight for you, the same as before. With the satyr boy having gone missing and with monsters in the wood, now is the time to act and without further delay. You can select them from any race you choose. You will need to only replace two, although even that may prove to be a tall demand. Find out for yourselves if any others replace you worth fighting for as the satyrs did in the Second War.”

“That’s preposterous!” exclaimed Duravane. “No other race will fight for elves!”

“You don’t seem to realize the problem with that statement,” said Graybeard. “But the satyrs did once. And there were a lot more of them who did than just two.”

“Who are we to ask? The Shire-folk? Halflings would be useless in war and so cannot be expected to volunteer,” stated Duravane.

“There are at least three other races that still remain—and you may include any others as well. It is your choice.”

“We shall not ask orcs for help,” Duravane stated flatly.

“They wouldn't fight for you anyway. So, who will fight for the elves? If you are half the noble and worthy species you think you are, someone should,” noted Graybeard, raising his wineglass. “Or am I to presume that not even elves will fight for elves? I only ask for two volunteers. Do they not exist?”

“I do not know,” Duravane admitted. “But, if you insist, I shall try and replace them. Of what characteristics do you require of them?”

“Only one,” Graybeard answered, “that they be willing to fight and die for elves.”

“That is no small request.”

“Is it? It shouldn’t be! If there is no one willing to fight and die for elves, what does that say about elves? How are you any different from an orc?”

“You insult us by that comparison.”

“Why? No one is willing to fight and die for them either. Where am I wrong? You insult yourselves when you say no one will any more fight for you than they would for an orc.”

“We do not seek alliances or aid from others!”

“That’s why you don’t have any allies,” Graybeard scoffed. “The drow are coming. Their spies are already here. You will not see or hear them when they arrive. One day these woods will simply be found empty of all of you and without a trace you ever lived here, the same as the satyrs.”

“And if I get you your two volunteers, what then?” asked Duravane.

“A company is being raised—an expedition—even as we speak. They will seek out the fate of the satyrs to free them. Your two volunteers will join them.”

“Free them—the satyrs? They are almost certainly all dead!”

“Perhaps,” Graybeard said with a slight nod, “or perhaps not.”

“Why are only two needed? Of what difference is two?”

“I can’t have it be said that only one was willing to fight for you when I speak before the Council of Azazel on behalf of the elves. I can honestly say that more than one came. And, if you willingly provide two or whatever of your own number, I can also say you are part of an alliance to save the satyrs.”

“Our contribution seems rather pitiful.”

“Your contributions have always been rather pitiful, but I shall gladly accept more than two.”

“No! No! Two is quite enough, thank you. You want us to replace two people willing to fight and die for us? Very well! It shall be done. Is there anything else?”

“I want them to be honest.”

Duravane stiffened slightly.

“Naturally,” he said. “That goes without saying.”

“If that were true, I wouldn’t have had to say it. I bid you a good day. Have them here and ready when I get back.”

“And when will that be?”

“A few days—a week at most,” he replied.

"Certainly," Duravane promised, though wondering where he could possibly replace anyone so foolish as to fight for them.