Eyes of the Satyr – The G.O.A.T. Part 1

So I entered culinary school and... it got hands, yo. Very demanding on time and I have to practice every day so the Chef gives me a good grade. That means wayyyyy less time to write, plus the theory courses like the proper handling, storing, and preparation of foodstuffs, learning the Health Code of my country, and others.

I have been very busy. The grades are good so far, though, which is nice. It's a bit sad that it comes at the cost of writing, but how often is reality the way we want it to be?

Short chapter now that I had a bit of time. Enjoy~!

Footsteps echoed in a narrow flight of stairs that barely fit three standing shoulder to shoulder. The breathing of people going into a battle with an uncertain outcome had no unified rhythm to it. Disperse at they were, so too, thoughts would follow.

Nervous coughs broke the silence, followed by hums to clear the uneasiness within. That sharp, short, and sure show of shallow disquiet came and went uncountable times during the descent.

Sighs followed with chuckles accompanied the whispered name of the monster waiting at the end of the stairs. Not defeated, not unwilling. Disbelieving, perhaps. Anxious, even.

The three at the front, those with physical power and endurance in abundance, were relaxed in their expectation for conflict. Hoping, maybe, for a satisfactory scratch to the constant itch that was the desire to do battle with powerful foes that most would choose to avoid.

Bright in ways life is not, the forward-most individual bobbed her head to an unheard tune. Evidently in fourths, the tap of gloved fingers on armored thighs, a clink of metal on metal was the only order within the small chaos. Still, the way her voice unnaturally spoke in all possible registers at once to dispel the illusion was still fresh in memory.

To the right, the quiet chewing of food could be heard under the nervous breathing of the ensemble. An impromptu intake of energy to perhaps gain a vital upper hand in the upcoming encounter.

Closely behind, the tallest yet lowest leveled individual, lightly tilting her head to not scrape the roof, had the calm disposition of a fighter in the face of promised violence. The breathing was even, as was her footsteps, louder than the rest, but no less secure in their advance.

An accepting march towards death. To deliver death. To profit from death.

Barely audible steps chased the first group. A pair acquainted with violence of a different breed. Of ambush and surprise. Of trickery and deceit. Of diversion and manipulation.

Although deeply committed to her beliefs, the younger yet more powerful Scout's breathing had none of the composed rhythm present on the vanguard group. It wasn't doubtful by any stretch of the word. The expectation within had no inclusion of the self. She wanted to watch one specific individual's violence. To witness it in full. To drive the final nail on the already solid worldview. A confirmation of sorts. Nothing more to it. Yet another one, that is. With evidence aplenty in recent memory, it was perhaps the exhilarating experience of it and nothing more. An obsession, if one used extreme words. Adoration, if one were to be nuanced.

The shorter and older Scout gave unsure glances to the Warrior tank ahead. An accepting, yet anxious view of cultural differences. Concerned love. Justified but uninvolved worry. His breathing reflected that and much, much more.

Behind the pair, Masters of E'er followed in silence, contemplating myriad possibilities.

The changed friend and oldest member breathed regularly, but shallow and anguished. Memories coming and going influenced odd footsteps. Certainty in something, but not this something. Another. One long lost, another one missing and wandering far away. A hidden pain that clutched at the heart with unforgiving brutality.

Deep in thought followed the other, much younger Wizard. Perhaps under the rush of massive level gains, her breathing was excited yet cautious. Footsteps that wanted to rush one moment, and stop entirely only to return the next. A trust that fought a surface level fear.

The most nervous breathing came next. The conductor of the orchestra of violence. The young but capable friend followed the group while concocting plans, formations, and contingencies in her mind. Footsteps that told of being acquainted with physical pain with willingness to face it once more to obtain more power, despite not entirely wanting to do so with the approach at hand. The risk was too high, but so were the rewards. Gauging the present force in full was not easy, all things considered.

An even breathing followed the group. Readiness to assist accompanied an experienced stride performed thousands of times before. The current situation was nothing new. Not the first, nor the last. The specific monster was the only thing that differed from what she had done nearly all her life, and she would make sure it remained that way with the tools at her disposal.

Finally, yours truly.

One of the pillars of culture for millions of years has been violence. There are near endless ways to translate violence in all manners of its occurrence. Be it War, a Dungeon delve, a feud between kin, a dispute between siblings, or the breach of love. Stories, music, paintings, statues, and more. A witness is necessary to translate the most basic facet of life into art.

Violence is a necessity.