The Lost Feyspawn

Late in the evening, as the mist rolls in off the Great Goldpan, a high-pitched, mournful wailing echoes from beneath the dock pilings. It sounds like a child, but the tone is too melodic, too ancient. Cautiously approaching, the party finds a small, spindly creature huddled in the water—a young satyr, no older than a human child, with tiny nubs for horns and trembling, tear-streaked cheeks.

He clutches a torn piece of a loggers' contract. "Please," he bleats, "I'm lost. The other satyrs ran away. The trees are screaming. I can't go home. The Nymphs' border is frozen, and Bramblewhip is hunting me because I spoke to the loggers." He looks at the party with wide, terrified eyes. "The river spirit said you were different. She said you could help. Please... please don't let the humans find me."