You were born.
A healthy satyr.
You parents stared down with joy at you, their infant. What wonders would await you, they though.
You cooed at them, your former life now buried deep within your new subconscious.
“Look at what we made,” said your mother,
“I know.” Said your father.
Time passed. You grew into a strong adolescent.
Under another morning sun, watching the sun rise, you smiled.
You were a tall, young saytr. Your goat legs were slim and toned. Your skin was a deep tan, and would encroach into the darker pigments under the summer heat. Your hair curled around your stubby horns, which were yet to fully develop. You chest was strong, and youthful. Your features only based a passing resembence to your past life, with the influences of your father clearly making their mark. You had his strong chin, but had yet to have your youthful features smoothed out into an adult.
You stretched, lifting yourself to your hoofs. Your arms had a thick coat of hair; a feature not alien to a saytr. Especially one of your herrstiage. The great son of your father and mother, the rulers of this glade and all satyrs and nymphs within.
You let out a sigh, and stared with your green eyes over the valley. It was another day. What was to happen today?