Centigor Wildherds

The centigors are the wild riders of the beastkin, monstrous things with the torso of a gor set upon the body of a great forest stag, and where the common herds crawl through the deep woods on foot, the centigors run. They range far beyond the treeline that pens their kin, out across the old forest roads and coach-routes of men, covering ground in a night that a warherd could not cross in a week. The brayherds are a besieging terror; the wildherds are a raiding one.

They strike drunk, fast, and laughing. Centigors brew a foul spirit they carry in stolen skins and swill even as they gallop, and they hit a waystation or a toll bridge or a laden caravan in a howling, reeling charge. There is no siege and no grim patience: only the sudden thunder of hooves, a few minutes of ruin, and the drumming of the herd already receding into the dark.

Even other beasts give the wildherds room, for a drunken centigor is as apt to gore an ally as an enemy, and its loyalty to any Beastlord lasts precisely as long as the wine and the plunder hold out. They serve the herd's chieftains as outriders when it suits them, running down fugitives and scouting the roads, then vanish on some wild road of their own: heard, dreaded, and gone before the dust has settled.