Soaked and spent we arrive at the village. No smiles, cheers or greetings welcome us home. Only darkness and guilt.

My feet splash through puddles en route to my teepee. I wish to sleep and forget the last day, or has it been two days since the expedition into the Depths began?

Streams of black ashy waters run from the remaining pile that was my campfire, the idea of mushroom porridge in the morning does little to improve my mood. Only a numb depression sits heavy inside me now, I just want to rest and forget.

I crawl into the teepee entrance, tossing my wet garments to one side and laying on the soft furs of my bedroll.

Piia is missing again, so the boy takes her bed while Cane remains outside to weather the downpour.

Thank Mother the fern sides keep the moisture out, as I want nothing more than to stay in my nest.

Praying the sandman takes me quickly and to a world of sunlight and warmth, but I can’t keep my eyes closed for long. I hear their cackles in the dark, I see bloody walls and red eyes of those I cursed to a hideous end.

Holding Honey close, the slug's glow vanquishes the images as long as I keep staring. The boy does the same, we say nothing until the bird songs announce a new day.

I emerge to Mother’s beautiful world in all its glory, with motes and sunlight reflecting off the wet plants. Breathing it in, I remain motionless until the child latches onto my leg. The hollow bowl inside me that sloshes with guilt and fear, leaks a little as he stares up at me with a pleasant grin.

“You’re right, we made it.” I say to him, hoping that I start to thaw away this depression.

Mushroom porridge used to burn off my sleepy morning blues.

We collect dry wood from the storage, a repurposed teepee, and soon a fire crackles outside my little home. Clothes drying on a line, insects launching through golden rays, porridge bowling in our pot and Cane still snoozing away.

Our neighbours stir and rise, whispering at our sudden return and spreading the news like a flick of blood onto a crowd.

I shudder, tears threatening to reveal my weakness to the village. I smother my emotions as my society's version of masculinity conditioned me to do, then retrieve Honey to distract me. During the day the slug resembles a giant glow stick.

As the porridge finishes, I place Honey on a nearby root and pump out a few droplets of nectar to sweeten the breakfast.

I munch down the fibrous oats as the boy delicately follows suit, his throat raw and sensitive, he’ll be eating porridge till his horns grow out. A better protein source like meat or Verox eggs would help, though both are rarer than a prudish Satyr.

“I know a healer that can sort you out, boy. If we can find-

Wood crashes as it's dropped, or thrown to the ground, startling myself and Cane.

“Who in Mother’s large bosoms is that?” Screams Boi, my super fan. He points menacingly at the youngling sharing breakfast with me.

I am so shocked by the uproar, plus my fatigued mind, that he snaps before I can answer.

“Do you think that is me?” He swings a stick around in a tantrum.

“Well no, this-

“In two suns you discard me like a muk leaf! No! I am Ferrum compared to this rotten sapling, I challenge him for my honoured position in the flock!’ Boi’s feud draws eyes.

The youngling shies away from his aggressive swings that whistle overhead.

“Enough! You’re scaring him!” I launch to my feet, patience for his antics lost in my lack of sleep. I shove him too hard, and his petty physique of fur and bones collapses. His meagre weapon tumbles away, the watchful eyes take note and gossip, I don’t care. Boi’s unwavering malice found a new home in me, boring into me from a heap on the ground. It splinters the dam of fatigue, leaking out a fresh gush of guilt.

I tell myself to apologise but react too slow.

Finding his hooves, Boi spits at my feet and sprints away. There goes my number one fan.

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We clean up after breakfast in silence, not that the melancholy atmosphere in the flock could be lifted with much chatter, considering that it currently consists of a hippo, a slug, a mute Satyr and a depressed Shepherd.

Anticipating a summons from the Voice, I tuck my new sword into my belt having discarded the useless Xiphos sheath. The long blade runs straight against my hip with an unfamiliar weight.

Its original owner cared for the once beautifully crafted weapon with respect that showed in the stained Ferrum handle and razor edge. Now sullied after the battle in the tunnel with notches and dried blood, I will have to clean and restore the metal when I find the energy.

We head towards his sanctum along the long route. Wandering through the village to collect smiles and waves as we go. I desperately want to feel welcome and loved, but I only see the screaming fury of the enraged Thorns in their faces.

Will they understand my story if I tell them the truth, that spreading the mist was an accident, that leaving the Captain was the only way, Satyr’s venerated survival above all else, except Mother. The tribe packed up shop and left when Piia pursued her sister, without even leaving a message or mark.

I should seek my friend after the meeting, unload my internal woes upon her shoulders and share the mantle. But what if they see evil in my actions, the wickedness that runs through my veins.

Cast me out into the wilderness with no purpose or home. If I’m going to live in this world, then I need a community and support to keep me going. Will that require me to tell the truth or be their Shepherd? Surely it’s my choice, so I will see how the Voice reacts before making a decision.

As we reach the clearing before the sanctum, a Thorn on duty out front sees our approach and dips through the fur flaps. Moments later the Voice appears, bohemianly regal as always in public.

“Seth, our most devout follower of Mother. You have returned from your trial!” He announces to the village as much to my party. He makes a point of looking past me.

“Alas you are well and good, but what of my noble Captain, where are the Thorns?” The Voice questions with sardonic reverence.

“The Depths have them, this young lad is the only Satyr to survive.” I gesture towards the youngling, however, the Voice doesn’t spare him a glance.

He shifts closer for another awkward embrace, the stench of crushed petals barely covering the body odour that leaks from his fur drapery.

He whispers in my ear. “The Ferrum seed, tell me you succeeded?”

“No, and the seed doesn’t matter.” I spit out.

“That was the expedition's entire purpose, you fool.” He sneers.

“And the lost children?”

He pushes me back while grasping my shoulders, noting my grimace of pain he proceeds to squeeze for another leaf fall before I push him off. The strength of his grip throws me off, the gleam of sadistic enjoyment in his eyes at my discomfort.

He leaps back at my shove. “You dare to strike the Voice of the tribe. I understand you’re frustrated with your own ability. Failing yet another trial set forth by our dear Mother to prove your worth. But to lay your hands upon the people’s spiritual leader.”

My anger overflows, he sent us into that nightmare for nothing more than seed, and I’m the failure.

“I brought the only surviving child back from that place.” I yell, the village stirs at the confrontation taking place between their supposed Shepherd and their spiritual leader.

“A single fawn. How many courageous and talented Thorns died? And you think that’s a success. Maybe in your colonies of Man, but not out here in Silva’s woodlands. Numbers make the herd strong, not one. Your misguided arrogance is a taint upon us. You are done here.” He flicks his hand in dismissal.

“I did everything I could down there. You have no idea the monsters we faced, the terrors of the darkness. Those deaths will stay with me forever.” A lean forward as if to leap upon him.

A hand takes my arm that threatens to lash out at the weathered senile Satyr, I look over and find Piia beside me. Supporting me with a smile and her presence.

“If Seth says he did everything he could, then I believe him. That place has always been feared by our kind since the beginning of history. To save this child from there is a boon that we should thank Mother and our Shepherd for achieving.” She states loudly.

The Voice leers at her with unmasked hatred, then observes the crowd's reaction to her words. They have all heard the stories, the warnings of the Depths. To lose an entire garrison proves every word.

“I will confer with Mother about the trial, she will speak the truth.”

“Don’t you understand, our Goddess wasn’t there with us in the shadows. We couldn’t feel her presence or see her light.” I claim

“Blasphemy!” He announces.

The nameless lad steps forward, building up enough courage to stand before the village and the Voice. He can only nod his head in agreement with my statement.

“What is he saying? Speak up lad!” The old Satyr finally acknowledges him with irritation.

“The creatures of the Depths ruined his throat, he can no longer speak.” I say, indicating to his raw throat, the muscle fibres and tendons visible to all.

Gasps in the crowd follow as people see the gruesome wound.

The Voice mulls over the scenario, defeated in his argument. He frowns at the child before making a decision.

“Then you should treat this fawn- he leans down to within inches of the boy's face - and if Mother blesses you with words again, I would very much like to discuss what happened down there in the shadows.

Maybe over some nice sweet treats and warm broth.” The fawn only glares back with resentment, I put my hand on his hand and pull him towards me and into the safety of his flock once again.

“I’m telling the truth, you won’t get more from him.” I snarl, sensing another trap.

“Bide your time and recover, before your next trial begins.” He gleams with insidious desires, never willing to shift an ounce of power from his fur throne.

“No! There is no time for another trial! Daemon armies push closer every sun. Hunters grow bolder. Mother spoke of a Shepherd, so her people could be led to safe pastures! Let us pack up and find those lands together before it's too late!” I turn and address the crowd with my last words.

“Folly! Where are these Daemons? No patrols have seen them. Hunters have always been a hindrance to us. Mother spoke to me, and she will again wish to confer on your next trial.” He stares me out, then turns and briskly saunters back into his sanctum.

“Another rutting trial.” I curse under my breath with fury.

I don’t even want to be the Shepherd.