The satyr could tell they didn't believe him. All this distrust over a small joke? Or was there a little prejudice involved? One dwarf seemed to take his side, but the other dwarf seemed all against him. The satyr turned to the salty dwarf, whom he realized barely came up to his waist. 

"I'm not sure of an exact number, but enough that the forest dwellers have given up fighting them. Captured and murdered an innocent nymph, I stopped going that way." There seemed to be a bit of sadness in his statement. The escapist that he was, the satyr would rather not face his problems. Evading them was much easier. But when he stopped to dwell on it: his home being invaded by horrific monsters, his friends being tortured and killed just for wandering too close, the feeling of helplessness at the inability to fight them and just hoping they move on soon...

"I would say in the hundreds, for sure. Your party could try to fight them, but I watched a herd of centaurs try the same and die. They have blades that aren't the crude norm for such beasts; probably stolen."