Satyr
Satyrs are exuberant, horned Fey known for their unquenchable thirst for freedom, festivity, and sensation. Bearing the lower bodies of goats—cloven hooves, muscular haunches, and short furred tails—and the upper bodies of humanoids, satyrs are instantly recognizable by their curling ram-like horns, wild hair, and gleaming eyes filled with mischief and mirth. They are often garbed in flowing, loosely adorned garments made of forest silk, woven vines, or nothing at all—clothing, to a Satyr, is more about expression than modesty.
Born of the wildest parts of The Feywild and steeped in primal magic, satyrs are deeply connected to joy, instinct, and artistic expression. They serve as both heralds and guardians of celebration, their lives centered around music, dance, poetry, and revelry. A satyr's pan flute is more than an instrument—it’s a vessel of enchantment capable of inciting laughter, sleep, or frenzy with a single breath. To hear a satyr play under a moonlit sky is to momentarily forget your burdens and remember the bliss of simply being alive.
Satyrs dwell in hidden glades, sylvan hills, and moss-draped clearings, often near ancient standing stones or glimmering pools where the veil between realms is thin. They rarely build permanent structures, preferring nature’s architecture—hollow trees, sun-warmed stones, flower-laced thickets. While many are wanderers, those that settle often become the heart of a fey revel or seasonal festival, drawing creatures from far and wide to partake in their boundless joy.
Though lighthearted and often irreverent, satyrs are not foolish or frivolous. Their laughter is not ignorance—it is resistance against sorrow and entropy. They understand deeply that joy is fleeting, and so they cherish it, protect it, and live it fully. In times of danger, satyrs become fierce protectors of their groves and kin, wielding magic and agility in tandem. They often fight not out of hatred, but to preserve the lightness of life from being swallowed by darkness.
Satyrs commonly align with The Verdant Court, whose values of life, love, and freedom mirror their own. However, some walk stranger paths, drawn to forgotten tunes and the beauty of bittersweet endings—such satyrs may drift toward The Twilight Court, dancing along the edges of dusk and memory.
Legends speak of ancient satyr elders who can weave entire landscapes from sound, charm dragons with ballads, or bind fates with the beat of a drum. In the Feywild, few things are as sacred—or as dangerous—as a satyr’s promise or a night spent drinking under their moon.
