The Minotaur made his way through the sullen valley of the forest. The trees looked alive, raised branches looked like arms, vines covered them like clothes, and the gray, black, or brown bark made up its skin. Blood and Mud caked his hooves. His body moved slowly, his tired limbs rising and falling continuously like a machine's growled hum. He was tired, and he felt it reaching to each of his bleary cow-like eyes unfocused and exhausted.
With a stumble he maneuvered himself in the labyrinth of the trees, the pathway already cemented in his mind.
He hoped to reach the mana source he had sensed for a long time before the rain in the forest turned into a storm. Steam rising from his body, water boiled on his skin, fizzling as it came into contact, and leaving the moment it came.
He had left the temple unharmed. With his brown fur now resembling a grayish dark quality to cover his broad shoulders. He sometimes muttered to himself questioning his own actions, his psyche had fallen to a dangerous low. The pain of the information intake still reverberated through his soul, and it took every ounce of his spirit to not fall.
Yarost as he interacted with the forest, through small gestures with his spirit, found some of it malleable and others unwilling to listen to his commands. The trees for example spoke, but refused to tell secrets. The grass and vines wanted to move, but refused to move on his command. All of the information came from the small things around him, it was his grounds, and if he exerted his will further he felt he could force it into submission. But it was a painful process as he was overloaded with power..
He had lifted the pain, but only a little bit. That didn't mean it didn't hurt. In the barrows of the worst of the pain, with great effort he stretched a gigantic hand to the awakened human, and knowing what to do as if it was a second instinct to him. He controlled the blue flames corroding the human, turning it to their bones, and branded them. The human was given a second chance at life, a system, and his body revitalized.
He had left the body over the altar, rain slapping their face, and with a deep hope that his planted rod wouldn't die before it could become useful. He made sure to make the humans hate him, so he went back into the temple, gathering the faces of what he presumed to be his comrades and placed them around him.
His pained sinister mind worked up faint ways into making the human a powerful force, one who prayed to their new god, him, lending them a part of his power. And nothing would change that.
Less, the gods of this world came down to hunt him down, which they couldn't, restricted by their odd rules that prevented them from attacking the forest god directly and instead using proxies and their greatest pawns to hack him down bit by bit only resulting in a shattered soul, and the forest still existing. The memories the forest god gave him were that of rage and strife, which seemed to consume the forest god's life.
Impending strife, a struggle to survive in a changing world. He was set in his old ways, and too old to comprehend that as a new god arose the threat to his position of power would also arise, and what to do with the old bittering forest. The new gods, a blur in Varost's memory, were strong and their scheming was only found out as his most vulnerable trustees fell to corruption, and the war against the forest fell sudden and quick.
Yarost wouldn't make the same mistake as his rival. They could try to destroy him, but they weren't stupid. That approach wouldn't work, and would only serve to send their servants away to fight a man that was already helping them achieve their goal, the destruction of the forest god.
They might succeed in killing him, Yarost thought. Their avatars have already received far greater training and know how to utilize their power.
But Yarost was an unknown variable, his half godly powers shielded them from the gods' constant watching. They knew his general direction, but not his power, and not his exact location. They didn't even know who or what he was.
He was an unknown variable.
Killing him might work, but he had already displayed his hatred against the forest god. Let him rage, they'd say. He could hear their contemptuous elegance. He meant nothing to them. A half god could not be stronger than a full god. The thought made him happy, but at the same time, his brain felt revolted by the mere fact that they thought to be his betters.
He felt that he was nearer to the magical source he had felt for quite some time. Yarost heard a deep chortling and laughing fill the tree lines, followed alongside grunting, the ringing of steel and wood, the sound drowned out by an outburst of cheers. He moved slowly, careful in his approach, but his power made him afraid of little.
He moved with small speed so he could kill them easier, an ambush would do them in, if they were strong, he'd break their leader and allow them to flutter like headless chickens.
Yes, that's what he would do. Yarost already cemented the thought in his mind and drew in silent breathing. His massive frame bent to the ground as he approached, the mud muddled his footsteps.
The animals were fighting in a small clearing, rain poured around them, and they formed a ring around two of their monstrosities.
Most of them were the size of a normal human. They wore furs like capes around their shoulders which went down their powerful arms. Their legs were similar to a minotaur's, with powerful muscles being flexed as they moved. However, that was the only similarity as their goatish faces were too human-like to be compared to his cow head. Most of them had horns, curled in a spiral manner like a goat or ram.
Their monstrosities, though, looked to be the best of their race, with two hands clutching a fine ax, these two were taller and fought ferociously in the center, both had been branded on their forehead, a crooked circle. The smaller of the two, had a fine beard going down his chest, and was crunched low fighting with the pure furocity of the jungle. His better, a man a bit more handsome than him, and that was saying a lot since they looked deformed like goats, was clean shaven and had a frightening scar that ran along his chest. His cloak was a little heavier, and he was on his back leg.
"Faun's…" Yarost thought. The word appeared as if whispered to him. These were only one of the few bestial men that inhabited the forests. His memories did not include anything about the faun, he did not gain the power of creation from taking in the spirit of a god, he gained a godly physique, the god's memories, and a godly mind with the power to give power.
There was hooting from the crowd, and the taller faun landed a fair strike. Their ax bit deep into the furred cloak of the other, and they screamed launching themselves toward the taller one with even more fury than before.
The tall one recoiled backward, lifting his ax like a pole, and jammed its wood into the small one's face. This blow was also ignored, but blood ran from their face, with a wicked roar they charged, sending both of them toppling to the mud.
The crowd roared in excitement, encouraging the brutal brawl to grow to greater heights.
One faun roared loudly, proudly betting that the tall one would win. The other's bayed and laughed at him, stating the small one would win.
Yarost, though noticed that on the outskirts a few of the fauns held morose expressions, batting the other faun's cheers and roars with utter contempt.
Yarost was trying to figure out exactly why the fauns were fighting… They didn't say anything in regards to that in their cheering, the mere action itself was enough to satisfy them.
Then the smaller faun wrestling with the tall faun was thrown off, the bigger one mounting them and beginning to beat them into the ground. Their axes were discarded, treated as accessories, the only thing that mattered was the destruction of their opponent. That's why the little one resorted to grabbing a sharp rock off the ground and stabbing it into the taller one's chest, causing him to stagger off of him, gripping the hot blood that flowed from its wound.
The beast attacked again, launching from the ground with feral fury, and the taller one swatted them down with a side step and a straight jab to the face. The blow drove them to the ground, and the taller one, seeing them vulnerable, hurried to grab the ax he had lost in the tussle.
Yarost clearly heard them chanting the tall one's name after his success in grabbing his weapon.
"Baun!"
"Kill 'em!"
"Split his head in two!"
"The forest god has favored you!"
Yarost leaned in when he heard that. They were worshippers of the forest god. Yarost began to smile from ear to ear, and his cow-like eyes stared, claiming their mark on the smaller faun getting wrestled to the ground, clawing and kicking at the taller one with disperation.
The tall one kicked them over, sinking his cloven hooves into their side, and pinning them under foot. The smaller one with all manner of screeches and curses yelled at the taller one. Almost begging them to spare him.
The taller one hesitated for a moment, and the smaller one suddenly leapt forward with unnatural strength. The taller one hefted his ax well, meeting their desperate gambit with a clean strike to their neck and shoulder.
Blood spurted and fell alongside the rain. The rain turned into a storm, and washed the body as it fell to the ground. The tall one dropped his ax, almost hurriedly, and took quick steps backward, stumbling into a manic roar, raising his victorious hands into the air.
Yarost had found his tools. In order to rob the forest god of everything, he needed to wrench from him his sons and daughters, sisters and brothers working for a common goal, and if done correctly, be used as a weapon to strike against their father.
Though the forest god was weak, they both had the same power, but one was more experienced and wizened the other a newborn. Yarost suspected the forest god rebuilding his power as he thought, and was retching the forest from his control. He needed to rip away the god's source of power, his followers. A god with no followers was a weak god.
If war was in their nature, he would become the beaming symbol of it. But how? The question plagued him, before he saw the tall faun being kicked to his knees, then his hands bonded by enchanted rope.
"Oh…" Yarost whispered, his voice a deep baritone. "They like prison fights do they? I'm sure these prisoners love it as well…"
He had formed his plan, and it was formed in the pits of his cow-like eyes. The feral monster inside of his head helped, the humanity in him, the small bit of it, conceded to it and praised it for its cruelty. So he stalked his prey.
They were young Yarost could tell. The faun didn't have the sharp ears of a monster, and few held weapons. He doubted they were strong enough to fight in hand to hand combat. He instead looked to the few that held weapons with greater interest about their strength, the confidence they had in their fighters was unwavering, and the way they walked about the woods made it clear who they thought was boss.
They were confident, but foolishly so.
Yarost knew that they could not hope to hear him over the storm, but he heard them clearly, hearing through their tongues in an instant.
They could not hope to find him in the woods around them, although they were there home. The Minotaur had hidden himself in plain sight, allowing rain and thunder to cloak his heavy sloshing footsteps.
Only a single warrior recognized this, and when they turned their head to look into the deep woods. He stared directly at The Minotaur who, confident in their inability to see him stood still, and watched as the single warrior stared blankly into the forest, a chill running up their spine, a strong feeling of dread making them look at trees once, two times, and more.
The group of faun's made their way through the forest with cheer and joy. They felt rejuvenated from the exhilarating scenes they saw. The body of the smaller faun being brought back, impaled on a spear, their blood running down onto the bearer's arm. The morose fauns were tired and protested the continuing bloodshed. The others called them prudes, sneering at them.
The line of fauns went deeper into the valley, following a set path in the forest.
As they grew closer to their territory, Yarost could see the makings of beautifully carved wooden sculptures and ritual stakes.
They took the prisoner back home, unknowingly being stalked the entire time. Few things could scare the beasts of the forest, but most felt a little detached from the forest around them, as if it had changed after the outing.
When they arrived, They found a hurried stampede of their brothers and sisters running around the village quickly, their hunters having departed hours ago. The faun village was in a state of disarray.
Wooden thatch huts, camps, and odd positions with wooden walls surrounding the village center were poorly placed. Fauns with spears shaking lined the walls, their eyes filled with worry.
Something had happened in the village, but the Minotaur, forcing a tree to tell him what had happened, learned what happened after great pain wracked his head.
The shaman had died…