Very first draft of Chapter One for Wounded World

The brush and branches crashed against the minotaur as it raced forward.Even through his thick brown hide and fur, he could feel welts and cuts. But his pain didn't matter. His discomfort didn't matter. All he could focus on was his duty, his duty to inform his Lord Creator about his discovery. Thirteen days of searching desperately had led him to the last outpost and now as he rushed back, he didn't care about his body or its exhaustion. His heart was failing, his lungs burned, and his limbs felt like dead wood, but he ran. He was going to run himself to death to reach the Lord Creator and he couldn't pause for a single breath. This was his duty, and he would not stop.
Each mile felt like it would be his last, but he continued to find strength. In his previous life, he had not been a runner or active, but his Lord Creator had made him into one. He was faster than any Sphinx and stronger than a Basilisk. The Lord Creator had made him so as a reward for killing his enemies with glee. Even now, he could smell and taste the flesh of the men and women and children he had run down and it gave him strength to continue to run. Soon, he would be in front of the Lord Creator. He could feel his presence through the thick spring forest. Jumping into the center of a river from the bank at full speed, he swam quickly through to the other side and jumped out, not even pausing to shake the water out of his thick coat. His black and red armor weighed him down and it became harder to move one leg in front of the other, but he was only a couple hundred yards away now from his Lord Creator. The forest on the other bank opened and a large fallow field lay before him. In the center of it was his Lord Creator's tent. It sprawled out and dwarfed all the other tents around it. It was the color of dried blood on the outside like a corruption. As he ran pass all the other smaller tents, all black and red like his armor, he could see a Phalanx of Gorgons marching in from the West side of the camp. He hated the Gorgons himself, but they did not matter to him now. The ground was muddy and torn apart by the hooves of thousands of minotaurs coming and going. He almost slipped while running, but a quick hop and he was back on his feet. No one stopped him. Across his chest, we wore a golden cow bell which rang incessantly marking his arrival to everyone.
Other minotaurs wore small steel cowbells as tassels along their armor. Enemies that heard the cowbells knew to fear them, to run and never look back. But their enemies were small and weak and easily ran down. And their flesh tasted so sweet cooked over an open pit when dragged back to camp. But there were fewer and fewer of those moments anymore. Their enemies were dying out and their meat was scarcer and scarcer. This last outpost was the last group in the whole world and their meat would be the last he would ever taste. But he would. The Lord Creator would reward him richly for his discovery.
He only stopped running when he entered the tent, the Sphinx guards moving out of his way Sphinx were honorable and always dealt with him fairly compared to Gorgons and Scylla. But he had no time to do more than nod to them as he stepped inside. While on the outside the tent had been dark red, the inside was bright whites and yellows, as if colored by the sun and moon. The ground was covered with a thick carpet and he wiped his boots on the mat and then waited impatiently in a chair while two small Satyrs came over to clean his hooves off. It would be death to anyone who muddied the carpet of the Lord Creator and he would never be allowed to deliver his news. From where he sat, in the rich sturdy camp chair, he could see the Lord Commander conferring with his generals. Two were Basilisks, more like dragons than snakes, while three were like him, Minotaurs. But the savage Centaurs made up five of his command staff. Around them, Satyrs moved quickly, delivering new maps or food and wine to those that called out or motioned for them. Satyrs were so obedient, they could almost read a person's mind to carry out orders given to them.
"Ah, Pyotr," the Lord Creator said as he turned to them. His armor was golden, but light and purest white cloth where the armor did not meet completely. HIs hair was dark red and hundreds of freckles covered his face. He looked like the enemy, but he did not smell like them and he had powers they did not. He was tall, but not as tall as a Minotaur or Basilisk. He smiled though, and that always seemed to cheer up Pytor. "What news do you bring?" His smile faded quickly. "I hope you are not wasting my time to tell me they couldn't be found."
Pyotr rushed forward and dropped to his knees and placed his forehead on the ground. His golden cowbell clang as he moved. Raising up in a half plank, he spoke softly, but excitedly to the Lord Creator. "I return with great news. We have located their outpost. We found six of them out foraging in the forest for food. We killed five of them and followed the sixth back to the outpost."
The Lord Creator stood close to the prostrating Minotaur and said nothing for a moment. "Tell me, were any of the five you killed a little girl?"
"Yes. But she was inconsequential, my Lord Commander. She offered no resistance and was easily torn asunder. I can still taste her blood in my mouth."
"Did I give you permission to eat?"
Pyotr placed his head against the carpet, his great horns dropping dirt on it. "No my Lord Commander. The hunger took us over after thirteen days of searching. We," he paused, "we did not mean to disobey. We just were so hungry."
The Lord Commander reached down and helped Pyotr to his feet. "Where is the outpost?" He pointed the map on the large table and Pyotr moved to it quickly and pointed it out. Then he returned to his prostration.
"You have served me well and I would normally reward you. I can understand you feeling hunger, but I cannot understand your disobedience. I did not create you to disobey me and twice today you have. Once to feed and then again to dirty the carpets with your horns. The satyrs will have to destroy the carpet now and make me a new one."
Pyotr looked down at the carpet and saw the small clumps of dirt and congealed blood. Not much larger than a thumbnail. "I will clean the carpet, my Lord Creator, and I will make it fresher than even the Satyrs can make it."
"I think not," and the Lord Creator punched into Pyotr's chest and ripped it open, pulling out bones and flesh. Before Pyotr crumpled into the carpet, staining it with his blood and torn flesh, he watched as the Lord Commander cracked his rib bone and sucked out the marrow.
After he sucked out the marrow from the bone, he tossed it down onto the body of Pyotr. Pyotr had been a new experiment, but had failed. The more he attempted to make these monsters stronger, the more capable they seemed of making decisions based on their innate free will he couldn't seem to stamp out. The first generation was the most loyal, but every generation after seemed to gain some kind of small freedom. Pyotr should have chosen starvation over eating, even though eating is what most likely gave him the strength to report back. He knew that, but it didn't change the fact Pyotr had to die. And he had to reinforce his law every time it was broken, even if it was dirt on the carpet in his tent. Despite the dirt around his tent and having been here for three weeks, no one had failed to break this rule before today. What was worst is that Pyotr's disobedience had seemed to affect the other minotaurs in his group because they had eaten also. They would be dealt with the same as Pyotr, food for the other monsters in his camp. He knew it wasn't as sweet as the taste of human flesh, but they would eat it and be happy to do so.