Tirrat

Plucked from his home at a young age to act as a sacrifice to an old god, Tirrat grew up in an environment of constant fear and uncertainty. In a dark, packed dirt basement, food only came around often enough to keep him alive, and communication was even more rare. The beast was left alone to his thoughts, but he hardly had the mind to make sense of them.

Words stirred around. Hushed whispers of how the beast was growing too quickly, that the ritual would have to begin soon. Sprouting horns were removed, burned from the head they grew from.

Tirrat only understood small pieces of the words around him, hardly able to comprehend why things were like this- Hardly knowing they should have been different. Despite that, he knew that the sounds of the basement door opening would be his funeral bells one day.

And ring they did, only a few moon rises later.

The beast was ripped from the dungeon he was kept in, and dragged to the valley of the great mountain that rose over the village. The ground here was soft, spongy with the water that collected in the swamp. Above the valley rose an old home, suspended on great columns that seemed to grip the earth. The sight of it set Tirrat's instincts into overdrive. Though he was worn and tired, he began to struggle again, but it proved useless. There wasn't much a young, malnourished beast could do to escape the village's strongest members.

He was pushed into the bog, his head held under by one of the elves who dragged him there.

The young minotaur cried out for help, even though he was certain no one would answer.

But...

A sensation other than the cold, sticking water of the bog came over him, and hours later he found himself waking up on the worn wood of the suspended home's porch. A deep purple shawl was wrapped around the minotaur's shoulders, and the sound of the elves was gone. He was left alive, with a strange new burning in his right eye that now glowed a bright purple in the still night.

From within the old home, a presence shifted.