FATE\Deus Decipit

Chapter 107: Satyricon

...

Bursts of light sprouted throughout the city like weeds, growing and twisting like trees, and then solidifying into exactly that. The onlookers now stood in a forest, with no sign of civilization in sight.

Rustling to their right soon revealed the tossing and turning of leaves, branches and dry grass accompanied by the panting of a young man desperate for breath. The young Dionysus, dressed in a dirty tunic torn apart by the elements and equipped only with a satchel and a wineskin, dashed past them, but soon tripped over his own legs, tumbling to the ground in a small clearing, barely keeping his face from the dirt with shaking, outstretched hands, sweat pooling under his eyes, and in a state of such severe exhaustion that he was on the verge of vomiting.

The old satyr nudged the observer with his staff, "This is my favorite part."

He laughed a low, malicious laugh, and crept forward through the brush, approaching the young demigod. She wondered if she should follow, but, seeing him cross the threshold of the clearing, the early-afternoon sun hit his skin in full, and she saw now that he was now the story rather than the storyteller.

His toothy smile oozed a horrid lust, like a tiger eyeing fresh, bloody meat.

"You run like a rooster, boy. I thought you seemed scrawny." He licked his lips, "The chase is supposed to be part of the fun, you know. This was far too easy."

The boy yelped with a hoarse voice and scrambled backwards. The satyr only laughed as he attempted to spring to his feet and dash away. In a flash of movement that belied his apparent age, the goat-legged monster seized the boy by his wineskin. Its string snapped with the weight, turning the boy around and dropping him to the ground. The young demigod- who had just brought Hell to one of the greatest cities of antiquity- shivered in the dirt, looking at this creature with shock and horror; paralyzed with fear.

Aisha remembered the myths she had read in her research. Satyrs, contrary to how they were often portrayed, were horrible creatures: they were murderers, rapists, bandits- embodiments of chaos, gluttony and lust- all that was natural, carnal and animalistic. The young demigod had every right to be afraid.

The gray-furred satyr popped the cap and poured the red-violet concoction down his throat, and his black and gold eyes were struck with surprise.

He grinned at the boy with red-stained teeth, "That wasn't water, boy. What was it? Tell me where to find some more, and I might be gentle."

"It- uh- it was poison! And only I know the antidote!"

His grin turned upside-down, "What sorta idiot puts poison in his waterskin? I'm not in the mood for bad jokes."

"It was a cursed potion, made by my witchcraft! You'll die if I don't release the spell!"

"Sure-"

He lunged forward. A black bolt of pure cursed energy formed in the young mage's hand, but this was snuffed out by a hoof that smashed his knuckles into the dirt with a loud crack and a yelp. His other hand rose in protest but was smacked away by the satyr's staff, which then shot into his palm and pinned his other hand to the ground.

"Oh-ho. A magician. Looks like we'll have to do something about those pesky little fingers of yours-"

The sweat on the boy's face was now more cold than anything else,

"It's wine! From the city of Thebes! ... But- the city is gone now! Burned to the ground! That drink- it's made from grapes but only I know how to make it! I'll show you how, but you've seen my magic! If you so much as lay a hand on me I'll lay curse onto curse into your drink until it melts you into a pile of fur and pus!"