A/N: Any advise on my writing? Always greatly appreciated :)
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Percy Jackson and the Olympians, it's plot, it's characters, or it's merchandising rights. This is a non-profitable fan-based work. Please support the official release.
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Let me tell you a story.
At night, the forest speaks. The leaves whisper, cool breeze whistling through outstretched branches; the creatures stir, hunting prey and wading through grassy pastures to find nesting; and sweet nothings sound as mothers lull their offspring with comforting growls. Although this mystic place is one which many know as home, it's no retreat, no sanctuary. Danger lurks in wildwood of Camp Half Blood.
All but one of the younglings rest. This youth is clearly of satyr kin, curled tuffs sprouting out from the waist down, stubby hoofs capping it's legs, and it's torso could be mistaken for that of a human toddler's.
Although a youngling such as this could ultimately be the scourge of this wooded kingdom, this particular juvenile would never dream of mischief making. It stumbles nervously throughout even it's own nest, and never makes purpose stir.
Stir is always made for it.
On this night, however, it's hooves flatten grass as the small thuds can be heard from the satyr's rush. It travels fleet-footed, racing on visions of heroism and bravery. Imagination quells it's cowardice, and so, it can leap forth with little hesitation. It's an improvement for this particular satyr.
Forgetting itself, the youth dashes further from the safety of familiarity - delight filling it's eyes as it stumbles into unsung territories.
The trees hang overhead in strange and foreign fashions. That would usually send the satyr into cries and hysterics, but on this night, it doesn't even phase it. On this night, it, for the first time, is being reckless and impulsive.
On any other occasion, the satyr would stay far from this neck of the woods. Anyone would. Those who know it, know it to be the breeding ground for monstrous creatures - entities that shouldn't exist in either tale or reality. They prowl the grounds and dominate the skies. They stalk, they hunt, they kill.
But elated by his games and false-reality, the satyr doesn't detect the lingering scent of stale meat - the scent of hellhound breath. He doesn't notice the hulking shadow stalking it's prey. He doesn't recognize the grave feeling of impeding doom.
Stumbling onward, the satyr chortles with delight, picking up both speed with stubby legs and the image of dodging hazards which have befallen many heroes. He performs flying kicks and whizzing knock-outs with his meaty fists, battling invisible foes in far off lands, but all the while, a far greater threat lurks just behind the brush.
He then condemns his imaginary demons to oblivion with one final blow, and lets out a celebratory bleat. Another noise sounds, however. A low, nearly inaudible gurgle slices though the calm and drills through his ear canals.
Fear like liquid nitrogen benumbs his thought and runs ramped though his veins, piercing his now frosted heart with icy dread. He becomes solid, every muscle clenched tightly to the extent of probably never moving again. Tremendous horror reaches the young satyr as he envisions gruesome beasts, gnarled claws raking the ground, razor teeth being ran over with a tongue in anticipation of the satyr meat that would no doubt get stuck.
Needless to say, the young satyr had never been as terrified.
Even with his heart pounding through his ears, the satyr can make out distinct thuds as the beast approaches it's petrified prey. It's low growl grows impatient with a thirst for satyr blood, and it barks hungrily - an inhuman sound which cuts through the night with such force, vibrating even through the satyr's clenched muscles as he manages a horrified whimper.
The beast now snarls, it's breath now blowing through the satyr's curls. His slitted-eyes are held firmly close in fear. He knows what's to come next, and is positively terrified.
What's to come, however, doesn't come. Anticipation results in the satyr's scrunched shoulders, but nothing more. Confused, the satyr's eyes unfurl slowly, cautious as to what they would reveal.
Great relief strikes through the satyr as he watches the scene play out before him. Another being of satyr kin, one far older, has appeared through the brush. This older, larger satyr stands erect, his broad shoulders straightened to intimidate. His curls are notably darker than the young satyr's, his stomach alone is three times the size of the young satyr himself, and his horns far broader, but it's quite clear from their facial features that they are father and son.
*"Εξαφανίσου," the father's voice is booming, and it echoes for miles on in every direction. "Δεν θα δειπνήσετε απόψε μετά το γιο μου, κτήνος." *
The young satyr couldn't tell if the hound understood his father's words, but it certainly understands the gleaming spear-head pointing towards it's heart.
The hound snarls, but doesn't put up much fuss before it scampers off. The young satyr would make a skimpy meal, anyway, hardly a morsel of meat on it's bones.
The father's eyes, dark as dark-ash wood, watches the brush the hound disappeared into for a beat longer than intended, then turns to the young satyr, a worrisome yet angry glint shining inside them. "Grover, you're not supposed to be here, I thought I made that clear."
The young satyr's voice squeaks, "I was playing. I-I didn't mean to ... to ..." Tears track down his cheeks.
The father trots forward and kneels one knee next to his son. His face is contorted in frustration and he's about to take it out on the boy, but thinks better of it, grunting dejectedly. Instead, he gives the boy a stern look, "You'll never come here again, Grover. Not once. I can't ... I can't stress this enough to you; you don't leave the clearing," he grabs the boy's shoulders pleadingly, stressing every word, "You-don't-leave-the-clearing."
The young satyr sobs an apology, and the father realizes he's raised his voice and his grip has tightened drastically. He quickly releases his hold, and envelops his son in a warm embrace, "No, I, I'm sorry, Grover, don't cry," he stands, still holding his son close. "No tears, Brave Boy."
Sniffling, the young satyr bleats, "I'm sorry, Daddy."
"Just don't come here again, Grover." his tone soothing and scolding all at once. "I couldn't bear to loose you, too."
*"Begone," the father's voice is booming, and it echoes for miles on in every direction. "You will not dine upon my son tonight, Beast." I decided if the hound had any chance of understanding, Grover's dad would have to speak in Greek because it's a Greek monster.*
