The satyr is a relentless foe.
Our rest has been interrupted thrice now by the monster, each time shortly after we had settled ourselves in. Each time we had barely winked before the watch awoke those sleeping, hearing the dreadful sound of the satyr’s approach. The Weald is unusually quiet, not filled with the sounds of Nature as it once was, but an otherworldly silence seems to fill the air when it is near. Its every step, every crack of a twig is audible when it approaches, giving us a moment to gather our belongings together before fleeing.
The first was after I had finished writing previously. That same silence slowly sapped any other sounds from the air, leaving only the sounds of its heavy hooves as it closed in on our camp. I roused Cole and Blacksmith just in time to see the horrific abomination come into the small circle of light cast by our campfire. The wound that Anselm had inflicted on it glistened in the firelight, viscera and sinew visible, a stark reminder of what it was capable of. In an act of feeble defense, I squandered a corrosive grenade in an attempt to ward it from our camp. I watched the potion eat away at the flesh of its arm until bone peeked through the withering skin. The monster did not seem to notice, its grip on its scimitar never loosened. It simply stared at me with those obsidian eyes, those eternal pits of black, and whatever defiance against the Unnatural horror I had mustered withered away. I fled with the others, away from the creature.
We ran, exhausted and starving, until we felt we could go no further. We no longer know what the time of a day is outside of these trees. It’s impossible to know if the sun shines upon the canopy of trees above us, the canopy that does not allow Natural light within, or if the moon currently looks upon the ground. Perhaps it does not matter. Perhaps this whole estate is rotting and beyond the redemption of Nature. Perhaps we are all tainted by the darkness of this place, condemning us to the dark of the Weald until it sees fit to claim us as its prize.
We rested after we fled. When we do stop, Cole allows us one turn of the hourglass to rest before we continue to move on, though it makes no difference. We slept twice after I had foolishly attacked the creature, and twice more the satyr approached, driving us away. My eyes burn in my head and as I walk, my focus fades as I stare at the torch held by Blacksmith, and the spectre of exhaustion seeps into every fiber of my being. The others are resting now as I write, for it is only the writing that allows me to stay awake. I hold no great love for my remaining two companions, and it is only out of concern for myself that I care to stay awake. I have seen Blacksmith eyeing my rations jealously, the small number of berries I have left, for the fool has already eaten through his own. I guard my possessions carefully to keep them away from his untrustworthy hands. And Cole, the drunk, is running low on his drink. I have seen him, when he believes no one to be looking, pull the monkey’s paw from his pouch and stare longingly upon it. He is a weak man and warrants watching, to be sure that he does not give into dark temptation and bring doom upon us all. I will not allow a man such as him to squander my hard earned survival, bringing death upon me to save his own worthless skin. Both men see fit to ruin me to save themselves, and I will not fall to their wicked conspiracy.
The Weald grows silent!