Alone on the Battlefield he throws down his sword as he limps away from the sounds of war on his twisted and gored leg. His other arm hangs limp with the weight of his broken shield as blood streams down his shattered arm. The young Satyr has fought for so long, the war started slowly as the creatures began to grind on each others nerves, the harmony of the creatures wore away with each trespassing and theft like how the drip of water wears away a hole in a stone. Soon all creatures of myth could no longer stand the others presence and so the war began as clan was pit against clan. The Satyr entered this war with enthusiasm, he could not wait to be in the lines of battle and at first he fought with a lust…
but as time went on, as he saw more death, as his sword became the blame for the end of so many lives and as now he endures so much pain and walks through the battle field full of the dead and dieing, he wishes to see no more. His tears mix with the blood on his face and he limps away on his twisted and shattered leg and tries to come to grip with the pain in his very soul. . . He is a weary warrior who has laid down his sword and now no longer strives for war but only to not let him self be laid down, he now strives to live, to get past the field of the dead and dying and leave the sounds of war far in the distance, war is a horrible thing, and he is lucky to have lived long enough to relize it and keep what is left of his life…