We have been attacked by a satyr, a creature long thought gone from the Natural world, and two of our number have been slain. It fell upon us as we slept, though Anselm, always the faithful beast, awoke us and provided us a moment to fortify ourselves for an attack, though it made no difference. We watched the dreadful monster amble into our camp from the trees, its wicked scimitars glittering in the light of our campfire. It had the torso of a man and the legs of a goat, though its face was a cruel mixture of both. Its eyes were as black as obsidian, the eyes of a creature not of the Natural world. Upon its cloven hooves it stood not much taller than Blacksmith, though in my mind’s eye it towers over all, and its fur was the same hellish color as whatever fires it sprang from.
Anselm was the first to attack, fearlessly lunging at the monster and clamping onto its arm with his massive jaws. For a brief moment I believed the monster to be crippled, but with horrific strength the satyr ripped the hound from its arm, paying no mind to the flesh taken by Anselm’s bite. The monster threw him aside and he collided against a tree with a sickening crack, falling to the ground in a limp heap, silent and unmoving. The quickness in which it happened was astounding, and the loss of his companion drove Maxwell into a blind rage. With an unearthly scream he charged the satyr, wildly swinging his club, but the foul monster effortlessly avoided his blows and decapitated him in one swift motion. I can still feel the warmth of his blood where it splashed upon my face as I stood there, watching on uselessly, until our collective courage broke and we three survivors fled from the red satyr.
We ran for an untold amount of hours, and we only stopped when our hunger and exhaustion would not allow us to go any further. We are down to mere subsistence, with not much more than dry berries to eat, though perhaps our food will go longer
My mind is still reeling from the brutal manner in which our companions were slain, and it pains me that we were forced to leave them to the machinations of the Weald. Anselm was a kind and loyal beast, and deserved a better end than one at the hands of a cruel mockery of Nature. Maxwell was a good man, a trustworthy man, more so than my two remaining companions. Cole is a soldier and a drunk, good for a battle but not much else, and whatever righteousness that had filled Blacksmith previously is gone. All that is left is the husk of a wild eyed man who repeats prayers to the Goddess hour after hour and is just as likely to run from his shadow as the satyr.
It was a mistake to believe that our task was done upon slaying the Hag and retrieving that damned artefact! We should have known that we had not yet seen all of the horrors hidden away in this place, we have only seen a small portion of the awful things crawling through these trees. Satyrs have long been thought banished from the world, though I have heard that dark tribes still worship them in the corners of the world they are shunned to. Even the pagans consider it to be blasphemous, those barbarians that worship the sun and the moon. I believe that the witches who have come to call this place home belong to those dark tribes, and they have brought that worship with them to this accursed place. The effigies are evidence of this blasphemous worship, idols crafted by witchcraft. Perhaps they have found a way to use the foul energies of this place to bring a satyr into the world. Or, perhaps, the Hag had wished for it be so. It does not matter, for we are in mortal danger all the same.
We are resting a few scant hours before setting out again. The satyr is still among the trees, and we have no reason to believe that it will give us up as quarry. Cole realizes this and is taking no chance of being caught unawares once more. We have moved a considerable distance already, finding ourselves on the outskirts of the cemetery, and if we can keep the same harsh pace it will only be a day and half of another before we find ourselves in the light of the sun once more.