A New Name

Icy cold wind blows over the frozen tundra swirling snow in the air and creating deep rifts across an open expanse at the base of a sheer cliff. Under the shadow of the rocken wall rests a small encampment, leather tents and ramshackle lean-tos house a tribe of hardy half-men. A young bull minotaur kneels in the snow, a slow trickle of blood dripping from his ear. Three of his peers stand over him jeering and taunting him, the closest holds a rock in his, the one he used to deliver the blow that brought Morgarl to his knees. The young minotaur was no smaller than his assailants, but outnumbered and caught off guard they were able to gain the upper hand. They laughed and mocked him because his father was frail and sickly. He had never won a brawl, nor brought in a fresh kill from a successful hunt. He never would have mated, in fact, if not for Morgarls mothers compassionate heart. Sometimes Morgarl wished he never had. Anger grew fast in Morgarl. Hot, sticky breathe blew hard from his nostrils as the fury of Lorne built within him. In one quick motion he was on his feet and charging into his three antagonists. With a flurry of fists, hooves, and horns the scuffle was over quick; it was clear that Morgarl suffered none of the ailments of his father. But even with the battle won, he had had enough of the torment. Blinded by his hatred, not only towards his peers but his parents also, and fueled by his rage he set off at a gallop northward, leaving his people behind and setting out to seek for glory to add to his own name. But he would always remember.