A sudden throbbing pain jolted Grimurl from his dream
of his father’s old pipe playing. He was greeted with another burst of pain, a thump
from a villager’s booted foot that rolled Grimurl onto his back. Groaning, he
took a moment to scan his surroundings: a few decaying horse stalls, mounds of
rotten hay stinking of some yellow fungus, a scythe racked on the wall, and a
trio of gruff men.
“Please—I’m sorry—It was an accident. I just wanted to
ask about her roses,” moaned Grimurl, trying to sit up from the hard earthen
floor. He glanced at the villager standing over him, a barrel-chested man with
shaggy blonde hair, garbed in a filthy white tunic. Grimurl smiled lightly,
looking deeply into the villager’s dark chestnut eyes, hoping he would feel
some sympathy for the satyr. A scoff from a rotund, greasy looking man behind
him foiled that idea.
“Liar!” screamed the blonde-haired man, kicking
Grimurl’s side again. “Why us? What have we done to you, beast?” he demanded,
shoving Grimurl back on to the ground and placing his foot on the satyr’s
chest.
“Why you what?” asked Grimurl, confused. Though
wracked with agony, groggy, and a bit hungry for some fern leaves, he couldn’t
help noticing a peculiar musk in the stable. He hadn’t noticed it before,
perhaps because he was unconscious, but now Grimurl smelled it—like wet fur.
“He’s lying, Bertrand,” interjected the other
villager, a lanky redheaded man, sitting nearby on a pile of the rotten hay.
The blonde man, Bertrand, growled and turned back to
Grimurl, “The sheep, the goats, the cattle! You’ve been sneaking around here at
night killing and slaughtering all our livestock.”
“Ha! You look at him shake,” sneered the lanky
villager, with an outstretched finger.
“Shut it, Corwyn! I want to know why us? What’ll it
take for you to leave us alone?” growled Bertrand, removing his foot, bending
down, and grabbing Grimurl by the horns. He hauled the Satyr up to his feet,
ignoring the fae creature’s bleating cries.
“Sirs, you’re wrong. I’m sorry, but you’re just
wrong,” Grimurl moaned, stamping his hooves on the ground to show the
villagers.
All three men glanced down at the satyr’s goat-legs,
and burst out laughing. Bertrand let go of Grimurl’s horns, and pushed him
away. “Now that’s funny!” he exclaimed.
“I don’t think so,” grumbled Grimurl, rubbing his sore
horns, and then brushing the dirt from his furry legs. “But since we got off on
the wrong leg so to speak,” smiled
the satyr to another gale of laughter from the villagers, “Maybe I can help you
with whatever’s killing your livestock. I can find any animal in the woods,
you’ll see!”
Bertrand and Corwyn fell silent, exchanging glances.
“How you know it’s an animal, beast?” questioned Bertrand suspiciously, both
villagers looked to the third, who as of yet said nothing. He was bulkier than
his companions, wearing padded armor, furrowing his thick monobrow.
“Oh—” said Grimurl uneasily, “Well, I just assumed since you
saw me,” he looked at his goat legs. “And figured it was an animal, not to
mention you used the word ‘slaughter’…that’s how,” he smiled cheerfully.
“Aye, it be an animal. The worst kind there is,” said the
bulky, armored villager. “I kept quiet till now—thought with the full moon
passing two night’s ago, it wouldn’t matter. But, last night…there was no full
moon…we have ourselves a werewolf, boys,” he said ominously.
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