A lone traveler was following a narrow mountain path, gray mountains with heads of white looming over a solitary man approaching their feet, as if to show him the futility of his quest. Many who saw the traveler would have described him as the ideal son of Rome, fair-skinned, turned golden from the sun; dark haired, and with a patrician face, as if some carven statue had been given life. This visage of Rome was shattered by his bright, blue eyes which betrayed his Gallic blood. These eyes accentuated the other barbarous features that he possessed, like his broad shoulders which held up lanky arms. There was no doubt that he possessed the blood of those brutish men which tainted the legacy of noble Rome, or perhaps it was the degenerate seed of empire that had corrupted the pure bloodline of savage virtue: a monstrosity birthed from the sickly corpse of an empire long devoid of nobility. Servantis was the name of this brute and his exploits would be the last echoes of Rome, devoured by coarse ambition.

Servantis began his long climb upward into those ashy heights. The mountain air was cold, and the autumn sun provided some comfort to him. He had started early, eating little and moving with a steady determined pace. Servantis hiked for several hours, and soon found himself in sight of a remote village. It was built upon a flat plateau with stone houses built in a ring around a large standing stone in the center of town. The monolith had symbols carved into its surface, mysterious runes of a dead tongue placed to ward off the evils of this land. The well-worn figures fought their eroded monsters with an artistry lost to time. Patterns of long inanimate deities whose faces had faded from the stone as sure as their names had faded from the memories of men. Several eyes watched Servantis as he entered the village and approached the monument. A flock of sheep grazed under the watchful eye of a shepherd. Several women sitting outside their homes tending to their work and children. Men who had just finished hunting, some hauling in their freshly killed deer and rabbits, others preparing them for butchery. A gaunt man bent over from age sat at the foot of the standing stone with a large rod resting on his legs while he sat crossed-legged. Servantes acknowledged the eyes upon him. The men clutched their tools instinctively, unsure of his intentions. The women snuck glances at him as they gathered their children into their huts, uncertain about the stranger’s intentions. Despite his age, the old man was a homage to his fairer ancestors, an ancient and beautiful ruin among crude and new civilization. He sat in silent appraisal, until he held up hand towards Servantis.

“Hail stranger, who are you and what brings you to our village?” said the elder in crude Latin.

“Hail elder, my name is Servantis. It is curious to meet someone who can speak the old tongue on days such as this. Where did you learn to speak it?”

The old man gazed at Servantis, “I was legionnaire in my youth, and when my legion was broken and its men scattered, I found myself wandering much like you, until I found a home here and married. Now I am its elder hoping to guide it through these evil days. Now Servantis pray, tell me what you seek?”

Servantis answered, “Elder I seek passage across these mountains. Could you advise me on what paths that lead over them?”

The old man stroked his chin in contemplation.“It is ill-fortune that you chose this path Servantis. I would advise that you turn back and seek another. For the path ahead is perilous.”

“Elder I am no stranger to peril. Tell me of this path and of its dangers.”

“I see you are strong and well armed, and I do not doubt that you are an experienced traveler. But this path…will be difficult to cross even for one such as you. It was road built in better times, but now wicked creatures haunt it and devour all that dare take it.”

“What creatures?” asked Servantis

“Beasts that walk like men. Stories tell of a village in the valley near the path. In the past they prayed to a deity named Bacchus. The village was rich due to the road and the villagers made many lavish offerings to him. But then the days grew darker and less people traveled the road, and so the village grew destitute, leading the villages to do dark and terrible things. Man lay with beasts and beasts lay with man. And their offspring grew into mockeries of both. The weak ones died and were consumed in offerings and feasts. Soon these creatures left the village and traveled into the mountain. They wait on the road to capture whoever travels on that road, and sacrifice them to their dark god.”

Servantis’ brow furrowed in thought, “I cannot turn back. Too much time has already been spent. No, I must take this path.”
The Elder shook his head “Then all I can do is offer a blessing of a safe journey.” He then yelled to a boy sitting by a nearby hut, who stood up in response to the old man raspy din “Lugus, fetch an offering for the traveler’s fortune.” And before Servantis could say a word, the youth nodded and ran behind the hut. The sounds of a chicken squawking could be heard and the boy returned with holding a sickly chicken by its throat. The boy looked just as sickly, with a thin frame, and his hungry face framed by oily dirty blonde hair. There were scares across it, remnants of a pox the youth had fought early in life. He was the child of this tragic age, the inheritor of its failures and victim of its misery. The elder lifted himself up with his staff and hobbled over to the boy. The old man drew a small copper knife from his belt. Servantis held out his hand to block the old man’s advance.

“Stay your hand, Elder. I do not need nor want the blessings of dead gods.” Servantis then left the old man standing at the large stone. The youth and the elder, too stunned to say a word, watched the traveler pass through the village. Mist had come down from the mountains filling the plateau and valley. The brute was engulfed by the murk as he left to find a way into the valley below. At the edge of the village path winded down from the plateau above into the valley below. The thick fog only allowed Servantis to see a short distance. As the path leveled out gradually, it changed from dirt to broken cobblestone. On the right side of the road was a small stone hovel. The roof had collapsed, and hanging about the doorway was a tattered linen curtain. As he approached he could smell the rotting wood and moldy cloth inside the ruined shack.

The crumbling stonework seemed to be that of a roadside shrine with an old bronze statue mounted atop a stone altar. Although its greater details were tarnished, its diecast curves were that of a woman, some local deity of travelers. The statue was the only remaining thing in the shrine as it was too heavy to move. An unwanted matron watching over a forsaken path. Servantis then heard the noise of small feet coming down the hillside. Soon the youth from the village emerged from fog carrying a small bundle. The boy stepped inside the shrine, when he saw Servantis he jumped.

“I thought you had left,” Said the boy, clearly surprised to see Servantis in the shrine.

“What are you doing here, boy?” Servatis asked

“The old man told me to make an offering, despite what you said.” The boy replied, he then placed a loaf of black bread at the feet of the statue. The boy then stood there awkwardly not sure what to say or do. As he turned to leave, Servatis stepped in front of him,

“Well aren’t you going to say a prayer? Asking for my safe passage.” Servatis asked.

The boy shrugged and said “I haven’t the tongue for it and besides I don’t know the name of the god.” The boy walked away, his footsteps fading as he returned to his village. Servantis stood there contemplating the actions of youth. He had paid homage to the unknown goddess to give a stranger safe-passage. But so was life in this blind age, Servantis took the loaf left at the statue’s feet, he took a bite of it. This coarse bread would be the only blessing he needed. Servantis then started his journey through the mountains.

Servantis followed the road, its ancient stones pulling him up and around the mountainside. The road was old, built when Rome was strong and could stretch its arm well beyond these mountains. But now the road was the only lasting monument to her now extinct power. A monument to people who had forgotten her. People have such weak memories, but these stones remember. The sudden cry of some bird echoed down the mountain side. The noise startled Servantis causing him to clutch the weapon bound at his waist: an inward curving steel sword. He gripped the handle of the sword, he listened intently. The echoes of the cry faded from the mountain side. The evening sun was setting its red light turning the roadway into a river of blood. The cry of the bird echoed across the valley. It seemed to signal the end of the day, providing peace to all who heard it. It was not moments later that he heard it. A guttural cry, somewhere between the scream of a man and the bray of a bull, could be heard from the road above Servantis.

Above him bathed in the blood red sunlight, was perched several grotesque figures. They had the bodies of man but the heads of cloven beasts, some bovine, others less so. But all were mockeries of both. Not one of them was equal in look which only added to their horrific nature. They descended on Servantis with crude cudgels and stone axes, braying and whooping as they did. Steel clashed against stone and bone, as Servantis easily countered the brute strength of beasts with his swordplay. He cut down two beasts before a third was upon him. With a wooden club in its hands the beast aimed at Servantis’ head. The swing missed its mark and Servantis returned with his own strike. The beast attempted to save itself by blocking the curved blade with his own forearm, but the blade cleaved through the flesh and bone and dug deep into the chest of the man-bull.

It fell squealing as black blood gushed from its wounds. The blade was stuck inside its falling corpse, and there were still more creatures advancing upon Servantis. He dropped the immobilized sword and picked up a discarded stone ax. Servantis made an upward swing, the stone ax head connected with the lower jaw of the closest beast. He then brought the ax down upon the skull of another. It burst like an overripe piece of fruit. The incredible show of violence caused the remaining beastmen to pause their assault. Suddenly a savage roar was heard and like thunder a large creature came crashing down toward Servantis. He turned to see one creature larger than the rest charging toward him. It was strangely more uniform in its appearance than its twisted kin, was the body of a man and the head of a bull, a minotaur from the ancient stories. The creature collided with Servantis, sending him tumbling to the ground. As he hit the stone of the road, his vision became blurry and darkness started drifting into view. He tried to lift himself up but some heavy hit his head and the darkness overtook him.

Servantis attempted to open his eyes through the pain. He lay against the wall of a cave, with thick cords binding him hand and foot. The light of a fire danced on its ceiling so he could make out that he was in a cave. He then saw one of the beastfolk walk into the room, its white hide was covered in a red cloak and in its right hand it supported itself with gnarled staff. The albino shaman approached Servantis and bent over to examine him. Servantis in the dim light could see two glowing eyes above him. They were crooked with the left one set higher to the right. Its hot and foul-smelling breath caressed his face as a rough and misshapen hand searched over his body, finally stopping at his chin. His head was lifted slightly as the creature examined him. It grunted, satisfied with the prey that had been caught.

The creature left, giving Servantis some time to think about the situation. He tried moving his hands, they were bound tightly but he was able to move them to an extent. He then began moving his body to try and break or loosen them. Servantis then felt something sticking into his lower back. It was a rock that stuck up at an odd angle with a slight tip. He moved to position himself so that he could rub against the cords wrapped around his hands. He had only started cutting through the cords when the shaman from before returned with the minotaur that had subdued him. The beastman elder pointed a twisted finger at Servantis gave a goat-like cry, the minotaur walked over and picked Servantis up. The beast effortlessly lifted him on his shoulder and carried him into the cavern.
The cavern was lit by the light of a large bonfire near its entrance, in the light Servantis could see twenty or so beastfolk within the cavern. Some were beating drums, some carried large torches to light the distant corners of the cave, while others danced in front of a towering statue. The statue was a minotaur in the same image as the brute that carried him, except it was cast from bronze and stood a foot taller than it. It was masterfully built with every curve shaped to bring glory to the god it was meant to represent. The twisted forms of the beastfolk danced around it in a mockery of religious worship. Their perverted visage of man and beast contrasted against the perfectly crafted figure that towered above them.

Servantis was placed on an altar set in front of the statue. From there he could see at the foot of the statue was a large mound of matted fur and flesh as if someone had attempted to turn a cow into a pillow by bloating it to an unnatural size. Suddenly the mound of flesh moved and gave a low and painful bray. Several of the smaller beastfolk began pushing at the body of the creature, moving it so that a wicked face, that looked not unlike a cow, gazed lazily upon him. It seemed that this was also an object of worship to these monstrosities. Goddess and mother which gave birth to this degenerate tribe, they meant to make Servantis an offering to it and their unremembered bronze patriarch. The red cloaked beast stood in front of the statue. In his hands was a familiar curved sword. He gave a deep bow to the bronze god and swollen broodmother. The albino then turned and walked to the altar. The beating drums seized as the albino gave his staff to a nearby beastmen. It then raised Servantis’ sword. This caused the tribe to break out in a cacophony of bestial noise. It was the noise of the fighting pit, a bloodthirsty chant for the anticipated bloodshed.

Servantis’ strong hand shot out, breaking his bonds and grabbing the shaman by the throat. With a powerful squeeze he crushed the throat of the albino. He then pushed himself off the altar with the beastman following along with him. The sickly shaman’s form crumpled between Servantis’ weight and the hard stone floor. The surrounding beastfolk were stunned by the sudden reversal of violence. Servantis grabbed his blade and swiftly cut his remaining bonds. He sprang to his feet holding his sword aloft. Their astonishment gave way to a boiling rage. They fell upon him, Servantius easily cut down the first couple of the beastmen that approached him, but they had the numbers on his side and would soon overwhelm him if he remained where he was. He ran toward the statue, leaping over the fat broodmare. The creature let out several pained moans as he ran over it. He turned around and struck down the few beastfolk that had reached him. He then looked about him, in front of him was the statue, it was placed on top of a stone dais.

A large roar interrupted his thoughts as the minotaur appeared, barreling through the crowd of beastfolk. It carelessly crushed those too slow to get out of its way. Its eyes were red and blazed with a fire that could only be quenched by blood. Servantis had only moments to counter the sudden rush of bestial muscle. He stood his ground facing down the brute, he then dived out of the way letting the minotaur charge head first into the base of the statue. The stone was smashed apart by the minotaurs onslaught. The lesser creatures continued their larger kin’s onslaught, swarming over Servantis. He swung his sword hacking the first couple that approached but soon he was being attacked by several beastmen. Then suddenly a low and deep groaning was heard. The beastfolk ceased their clawing and beating, looking up at the statue. The clamorous sound of metal against stone echoed throughout the cavern, and the statue started to fall forward. The beastmen screamed as their bronze godhead fell, crushing the minotaur and the bloated broodmare.

Servantis lifted himself up. Some cuts and bruises but still able to walk. He gathered what supplies were left in the cave and dressed his wounds. He went to find the road that crossed the mountains. The midday sun was beating down on his brow, when he encountered a small roadside shrine much like the one encountered at the start of his journey, except that this one seemed in much better condition. He brushed aside linen curtains to reveal a shabby room with the same layout as the prior shrine, but it was missing the statue. The stone altar was empty as if the goddess had grown tired of its home and left. Servantis kelt before the barren altar from within his tunic he took out a necklace from which hung a crude wooden cross. Grasping it, he closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. He got up, left the shrine and continued on his journey.