Villian Study

I'm playing around with writing from my bad guy's perspective. He's a satyr. Just throwing that out there.

Phaseo Finds a Choice Candidate

The spring water was forced down from beneath the small rise in the ground; it was cold, clear, and stung the senses. Phaseo knew it was good. It channeled down to feed the fountain, providing it with an endless supply of water and it drained what it didn’t need to a place further down the hill, a place resplendent with watercress, violets, and ferns. In spring, summer, and early fall the forest was filled with insect noise: bees, wasps, dragonflies, and at night the bats, crickets, and occasional owl held sway. All of this and more made a perfect resting place for the faun, the satyr–it didn’t matter. He only knew himself as Phaseo.

He had come to this place through the call of his pipes, a reedy music usually discordant when played by a novice; it drew him out from a misty place of myth in a darkened hall of collapsed time. Someone called him, and he responded. Now, a hollow beneath the fountain and near the source of the spring suited him well. Phaseo had immense patience; the human would show itself.

Then, stretched beneath dark roots, the satyr heard the boy. His eyes blinked open and emitted a soft green glow, sensing something delicate and delicious that would soothe the ache he felt. When he emerged behind the trees, he could see the boy in the gray moonlight, rushing behind another boy, his brother. The brother was a vasanatis, a bringer of pain to the younger boy, and therefore an unknowing ally to Phaseo. The more the young boy suffered, the more Phaseo could draw upon that white well within the boy’s soul and sip at it. Breathing in that pure essence refreshed him, excited him, and replenished his own essence: he had spent too long wandering black halls and swiping at cobwebs. He needed this child.

Phaseo drew his pipe to his lips, breathing in the chill night air, and a rush of leaves descended from the oak he stood behind, leaves now desiccated and crackled. He played a few notes for the boy.

The child stopped moving. Phaseo could feel the jolt of curiosity and fear hit the boy, the child turned his head this way and that, looking for the source of the melody. Phaseo smiled. He felt his own fur stand on edge and the green lightning surge up within himself. This one would do very nicely for him. A catalogue of the boy’s frailties rushed through Phaseo’s mind: screams and cries withheld at the threat of more screams and cries. Humiliations and taunts, even the growing bruise on the boy’s arm pulsed through Phaseo’s inner reservoir, filling it with the ambrosia he craved.

He allowed himself a little bit of the game, leaning out from behind the oak. Every fibre in the boy tightened upon catching a shadowy glimpse of him. Phaseo stopped himself from releasing a delighted shriek; each time he found a thyma like this one it was revelatory: Phaseo found himself anew, found his ears perking up a bit more, found his belly wanting to roll in unrestrained laughter. Yes, a new and delicious sweet to savor.