The Last Satyr: The Company is Formed Part 1
Draugo

Cloaked in dark attire that seems to absorb the light around him, Draugo moved with a disconcerting blend of elven agility and sinister purpose. His presence was a harbinger of discord, and the boy could sense the impending clash of light and shadow between them.

Now satyrs are more cowardly than brave in a fight, but in a battle of words, they can be quite brave and cutting. To a satyr, ridicule is an art form. He stood his ground.

“Cute!” replied the elf in disgust. “How like an inferior to respond!”

“Elves are superior to none,” the boy said. “Except in the knowledge they refuse to share.”

“Except in the thoughts, we refuse to share,” Draugo corrected him. “We do not share our thoughts with the bees, do we? Does that make us selfish?”

“And if you could share your thoughts with a bee, would you?” the boy retorted, “Or would you be afraid of being outsmarted?”

“I never said we were superior to bees—only to satyrs who have driders for pets,” the elf answered in accusation.

Draugo's manner exuded an unsettling blend of elven grace and dark purpose. It was a subtle air of cruelty that set him apart from the other benevolent elves. His pale, almost luminous, eyes held a sinister gleam, a stark contrast to his white hair that cascaded around his shoulders. His heritage betrayed an otherworldly lineage for no elf has white hair, an unsettling detail that added to the feeling of unease he elicited.

The boy grew wary. “How do you know about my drider?”

This was the second time today someone had brought it up in nearly as many minutes.

“Stupid satyr! I have ears! You were just talking about it.”

Then Draugo did not really know until now. The boy decided to keep it that way. He would say nothing about being called stupid too, but Draugo would not let him off so easily.

“And I also know you’re a thief!” he added.

That the boy was a thief was well known. Yet to call him first stupid and now a thief meant he was a stupid thief. Now that was an insult. He put aside his flute and faced him.

“I don’t know what makes you seem so unlikeable, but it really works!”

“I just called you stupid and a thief!” responded Draugo. “Or are you so stupid you don’t know what that means?”

“I understood it fine. What I didn’t know was for you to be so stupid as to have to repeat it.”

“Then let me add to it. You’re also a coward!”

That was also true, so the boy normally took no offense. Yet it still riled him to be called a stupid thief, so this time he responded.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he told the elf, the moment pregnant with the anticipation of conflict.

And he wasn’t—well not much, anyway. The fact was that satyrs, though not fighters, were more muscular than elves who weren’t fighters either. The boy was quite strong. Stealing watermelons and pumpkins is hard, heavy work and, when skipping school, he’d fish and could carry a fifty-pound salmon home one-handed. His body looked the part. Still, satyrs don’t fight with anything but their tongues, which were very keen weapons.

“Why? Because you lack the sense to be afraid?” the elf demanded of him.

The one who lacked the common sense to be afraid was Draugo. The boy was bigger than him, well-formed, and with well-defined muscles. In return, the boy wondered why he should be afraid of an elf.

“Why should I be afraid of you? Are you a drow?” the boy snorted in derision for the other’s white hair.

Drow were Dark Elves and a name not spoken amongst civil elves.

“Don’t call me a drow! I’m no drow. How else can I walk in the light?”

“I don’t know.” The boy observed. “The light’s fading and it is getting late. You could be a drow. After all, you do have white hair.”

All Drow have white-hair and prefer darkness.

“Don’t call me a drow, goat boy!”

Draugo instantly brought up a bow and arrow to the boy’s head, ready to let fly.

There was no greater insult to a Light elf than to be called a drow. Draugo waited for him to take it back.

Although satyrs are hardly brave and instinctively back down from threats, except for drow, elves are also not murderers. Still, Draugo was certainly convincingly threatening, and he had a drow’s white hair. Common sense told him to back down from calling the other a drow. But, at the same time, his knowledge of the elves told him his opponent would not shoot him in front of a witness like Ronthiel.

“If you’re not a drow, why do you threaten me? Only a drow would shoot that arrow,” the boy said.

The other boy’s eyes took offense, but the goat boy was right. Only a drow would release the arrow. So he didn’t—exactly as the boy knew he wouldn’t.

“If you’re going to shoot, shoot,” the boy goaded him. “I can’t stop you.”

“You dare me?” the elf asked, astonished.

“I said I can’t stop you. Especially,” he couldn’t help but add, “if you’re a drow.”

“You think I won’t? You think I’m afraid of you?”

Draugo should be afraid of him. Although an elf could put an arrow through your eye at 300 paces, they were not “close-in” fighters. One kick from the boy’s hooves and this elf would be singing in a high voiced falsetto for a week.

“If you weren’t, you’d have no need for that bow,” the boy pointedly told him.

The elf boy lowered it and then threw it aside. “I’m not holding it now, goat boy!”

Draugo was now the one on safe ground. Satyrs aren’t fighters either. They were flute players and dancers. So the boy did nothing, just as the elf knew he would.

“What’s the matter, goat boy? I’m not holding the bow.” Draugo stared defiantly at him, a challenge hanging between them. “What’s stopping you?”

His own nature prevented him from fighting, but that same nature allowed the boy to continue to critically reply. He remembered drow have red eyes.

“Maybe it’s your red eyes.” The boy’s gaze narrowed as he studied his opponent’s eyes, his lips forming a slight smirk. “They look drow to me.”

“I don’t have red eyes! They’re blue!”

“Oh, I don’t know. They seem to get red when you’re angry.”

“You lie, you thieving goat boy! Now back up your words and fight!”

“If you dare me, I will.”

“Dare! Dare! Dare! There now! I’ve said it.”

The boy had made a mistake. He had expected the elf to fear his hooves. After all, satyrs can be very dangerous, though they only kicked in self-defense when cornered. For, to a satyr, there are several good defenses against attack but the surest one is to run. Yet the elf had accepted his hoof challenge. One thing about elves; they know no fear. The elf was ready to fight over being called a drow, even if outmatched.

“This fight won’t be fair,” the boy warned him. “I have hooves and you don’t.”

He was looking for an excuse to back off.

“Well, why don’t you use them then? You say you can. Go ahead and kick!”

Now the boy had to back down. The last thing he wanted was a fight—even with an elf. The boy had never fought anyone before. It was best to just ridicule the elf and go home. He prepared his retreat.

“Satyrs don’t fight but if you fool with me, I will kick.”

“Hah! I don’t fear your hooves when I can bounce a rock off of your head from a safe distance,” the elf boy shot back.

That was true. He could and that made the boy think twice. The elf saw him hesitate and pressed the issue.

“What’s the matter? Are you afraid of rocks? I thought satyrs lived amongst rocks?”

“I’m not afraid,” the boy warned.

That was true. He wasn’t afraid. He just didn’t want to fight.

“You are.”

“Am not.”

“You are. It’s why you won’t kick, coward!” Draugo accused.

Calling a satyr a coward was hardly an insult. It was like calling a crow black. But calling an elf a coward would have been an insult and Draugo certainly intended it as one, even though it was not taken as one at all. The only result was another pause and more eyeing and sidling around each other.

The white-haired elf was right, of course, the boy wouldn’t attack. But the same was true in reverse. The elf wouldn’t either, or he’d get kicked. So it meant the boy could talk boldly, and no satyr passed up such a chance for a free insult.

“I don’t need to kick a coward who does nothing but talk brave,” he said.

“You’re quite the talker!” accused Draugo.

“And you’re quite the listener.”

The aggressive elf shoved the boy backward at the insult, saying, “Oh, I’m sorry! Did I interrupt your one-sided conversation?”

It wasn’t talk anymore, but it wasn’t fighting either. Still, it reminded the boy the elf was definitely not afraid of him. Being the stronger, the boy decided he should be and pushed back.

Draugo went flying backward, for, being nearly as tall as the boy, he was much lighter than the boy’s fine physical specimen presented.

Draugo jumped back up and quickly drew his knife, angry and ready to fight. The boy had never seen an elf do this before. Neither had he ever seen one with white hair before. He was visibly surprised. Elves are normally the most civilized of all people, but this one most certainly was not. It not only took the fun out of exchanging barbs, but was downright scary.

“I ought to cut you up!” Draugo threatened angrily. “After all, you’re nothing but a liar! All satyrs are!”

The blade gleamed menacingly in Draugo’s hand. Ronthiel, once a curious bystander, now stood frozen, his face drained of color as the boy held his breath. The promise of impending chaos filled the air.