The satyr played a mournful tune. One that Geralt had not heard since he was a boy, perhaps even before his trials. He tried in vain to recall the song, but it was lost to memory. Her notes seemed to taunt him yet he did not lift a hand towards his weapons. His eyes moved across her form, half goat half maiden, her auburn hair swaying in the cold night air. He felt a strange kinship to her, she was not a true beast, and he no mere man. Had she followed him, he wondered, and for how long if she had. Her music drifted, carried on the wind. He wished to continue but could not bring himself to spur on his steed. Ahead lay civilization, to people that cared so very little for all he did for them, a place where he would never truly be accepted. He wondered if the creature felt the same...
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