Caroline Barnard-Smith - Fantasy | Horror

A Tale of Two Satyrs

Satyrs?

Yes, satyrs. You know, those ancient Greek (also Roman) dudes with the goat’s ears and legs, not to be confused with the horse-like centaur or fauns of the whimsical Mr Tumnus variety. Antiquity’s satyrs were nature spirits or woodland gods such as Pan, often depicted wearing nothing but pan pipes and a snarl.

The Obsidian Druid’s Nicanor and Rakon might share Pan’s horns and hooves, but there much of the similarity ends (with the exception of Rakon’s fondness for wine and the establishments he charmingly coins, “comfort houses”).

"He was still finding it hard to believe that sliver of a girl had bested him. His disguise had slipped away somehow when she entered the room and he had been able to fight as his true self, as a satyr. That should have given him an advantage. Her fists were half the size of those his own hands could make. Her feet, cushioned in their soft leather boots, were laughable when compared to his hooves—wide, smooth, and hard as the obsidian rock that presently towered over his head. But her punches had landed so hard and her kicks had been so swift."

An black and white image of a traditional satyr. He has curly hair and horns, is buck naked, and looks very pleased with himself.
Image from Pixabay. The ancient Greeks knew how to strike a pose.

Rakon - The Black Sheep

When we first meet Rakon, he’s made the precarious decision to underestimate Vanth the Vile’s notorious fighting skills. He’s furious about this situation—he’d really rather be drinking or chatting up the nearest likely-looking warm body. Perhaps his downfall was thinking too highly of himself, often to the annoyance of his reluctant companions.

His head no longer brushed the ceiling and when he lifted a tentative hand to feel at his scalp, he found his horns had vanished. A dull panic stirred deep in his gut at the jarring absence of his horns, so tall and proud they often provoked jealousy amongst his kin."

Rakon may be proud, but he’s also desperate to shirk the responsibility of taking over from his father as leader of the Satyr Nation. His story is a clear case of ‘be careful what you wish for’. He dreams of escaping to live a life of adventure and ends up enslaved to a foul witch, tethered to an amulet corrupted by vile magicks that threaten to kill him. He probably should have accepted his fate and stayed in Nymed.

Nicanor - The Lover

Nicanor is Rakon’s polar opposite. Loyal and benevolent, he would rather stay true to his satyr self than be forced to disguise his identity in order to travel beyond the forest. Then his lover, a Wild Scrat warrior with a secret that threatens to destroy her, is forced to flee, and he leaves the only home he’s ever known without a second thought.

"At the village centre, a posse of Scrat surrounded a satyr. Lowen knew it must be Nicanor; no other satyr would dare to enter the Wild Scratgrounds.

In her mind she was crying out, imploring the Scrat to stop, to let her go to him. Her mouth remained clamped shut. Nicanor turned towards her, hemmed in on all sides by the long spears aimed at his chest. His eyes were wild, his usually strong and placid face distorted, pulled out of shape by pale, stricken fear. For one terrible moment, Lowen thought he recognised her beyond the ring fence of spear points. She baulked, expecting him to call out, expecting the spears to be turned on herself, but his eyes rolled in his head and he stumbled back, so panicked he was unable to focus on anything."

Nicanor’s someone you’d want by your side in a crisis. He’s calm and steady and knows a decent amount of herb lore (always useful when you’re running for your life through the Deep Forest).

"“The Blue Sickness?” Nicanor’s eyes widened. “I have seen such a thing many times. Please, let me help.”

Lowen hesitated. Her heart was beating painfully fast but Nicanor was familiar and reassuring, even after the bitterness of their last encounter.

“You are certain you know how to help? This is my grandmother’s life. She cannot die.”

Nicanor reached to touch Lowen’s face, fingertips briefly brushing the soft arch of her cheekbone. “I understand. I would not offer my help if I was not sure I could actually do some good.”"

Nicanor and Lowen’s relationship starts as a forbidden affair and quickly becomes the catalyst that could tip their fractured world into ruin. Will Nicanor rise to the challenge or will he crumble under the pressure?

The Obsidian Druid, Book One of The Age of Aikana, is available to buy now.