Horned Packs

The Beastlord is the most marked of the Horde — black-pelted, tallest-horned, his muscles spreading in shapes nature no longer draws. He has slain rivals, eaten their liver, carved their broken horns into the Tribe-Stone of his Horde. He commands not by word — word is weakness — but by mass, by blow, and by the Mark that swells on his hide when the Voice-of-Chaos speaks.

He wears the cuirass of plates looted and re-welded, the great-axe forged of fallen knight's bone, the necklet-shield strung with enemy jaws. On the field he charges first, bites first, kills first. His Virtue is Dominance — he is the strongest of the Horde while he lives. When he dies (it happens — a Beastman dies young), another takes his place within the hour. The Horde does not mourn. The Horde eats.

The Great Shaman is the sacred voice of the Horde — no wizard in the human sense, but a channel for the Voice-of-Chaos. He has outlived the other Marked (magic preserved him where it should have killed), and his pelt is striped with surplus Marks — triple horns, hooves split four ways, a black tongue hanging out.

He invokes the Way of Beasts by guttural chant before the Tribe-Stone, makes Marks bloom on the warriors of his Horde, routs enemy horses by howling alone. His magic is invocative, not channelled — he calls the Voice, does not command it. On the field he attends the Horde, howls at the moment of impact, hands out emergency Marks to surviving wounded. When a Shaman falls, the Horde knows the Voice has ceased to speak through him, and the Horde stirs. Another Marked takes his place — not by election, but because the Voice begins to speak through another.

The Minotaur Lord is the greatest monster the Voice-of-Chaos has ever blessed. Three metres at the shoulder, two recurved horns as thick as a man's arm, cloven hooves, muscle-mass that crushes wood. He is rare — a Minotaur-Lord is born perhaps every five decades in a Horde, and most die before adulthood (excessive Marks sometimes burn through the flesh).

He commands not by word — he does not speak. He commands by presence; the Horde follows him as one follows an avalanche. His axe is forged from a whole tree-trunk shod at both ends; it weighs more than a man and brings down horses it strikes. On the field he charges in wedge, bites, crushes, eats. His Virtue is Hunger. When he falls (twice in a thousand years, in the horn-chants), the Horde eats him — it is ritual and just. His Mark will return into the Voice. Another Minotaur-Lord will be born.

Orghuz Three-Horns, Howler of the Dark, is the most illustrious living Beastlord. He was born in a minor Horde of the Vermont marches a century ago, killed his Lord at thirteen, conquered three neighbouring Hordes in five decades, and now commands twelve — the greatest aggregation of Hordes the Shamans remember since the Collapse-March.

He bears three fully grown horns (a rare Mark), an entirely black pelt, and the ritual Bray-Horn he forged himself from the bones of a fallen Chaos Aspect. His Virtue is Massiveness — he weighs more than a Minotaur, speaks more rarely than a Shaman, and the Voice-of-Chaos passes through him without his needing to channel. On the field he leads the Great Chase in person, howls orders in three-word barks, strikes at the front. No human enemy has yet seen him and lived. The Saurians have set the price of his head at a full Plan-March; the Conclave-of-Form awaits confirmation.

The War Chief is the Lord's second — the strongest of the sub-chiefs, natural heir to the succession. He bears the Marks but fewer than the Lord; he has slain less, but he is young. His Horde knows he will become Lord when the other falls, and the climate around him is one of attentive watch rather than open defiance.

He hunts at the vanguard, leads raid-bands, picks first targets. His axe is lighter than the Lord's, his armour less complete, but he is faster, and speed kills as well. On the field he commands the right or left wing of the Lord, signs flank charges, eats isolated foes. When the Lord falls, the Chief challenges his potential heir at the next dawn near the Tribe-Stone, and the fight decides. The loser feeds the Horde. The winner reigns.

The Shaman is the second tier of the Voice's clergy — Marked less heavily than a Great Shaman, but already beyond the common soldier. He accompanies Hordes on the march, dispenses minor Marks (extra horns, temporary strength, amplified fury), silences enemies who speak in battle (a stroke of the Voice-of-Chaos suffices to tear out an enemy Hierophant's voice for an hour).

His magic is limited to one or two spells, enough to serve a Horde of middling size. He knows he will become Great Shaman if the Voice continues to preserve him — magic is slow on the Marked, but it carves. When he has outlived two more decades, he will be ready. On the field he fights afoot, casts from the rear rank, bites the few enemies who close. His Virtue is Patience — the only patience a Beastman possesses.

The Minotaur Champion is a young Minotaur who has outlived his first decade — half the newborn Minotaurs die in childhood, burnt by their own Marks. This one has held, has grown, and now hunts with the Packs. He has not yet the third horn, does not bear the forged mass — a great-axe of enemy bone suffices.

He is nearly as tall as a Lord, nearly as strong. His Virtue is Voracity — he eats more than the whole Horde, and the Horde tolerates it because he kills more too. On the field he serves as vanguard for Minotaur Packs, charges first, breaks enemy ranks so the others may pass. When he has lived two more decades, he will challenge his Lord. Most die before — an Albéen axe-blow, a Saurian lance, a Sylvestrin arrow. He accepts. The Voice knows.

The Centaur Chieftain leads the Centaur Packs — half-horse, half-Beastman creatures, Mutated before the Hordes' memory. The Centaur is swifter than a Beastman afoot and more precise than a human Rider; he combines heavy cavalry mass with light cavalry mobility, without depending on a steed that may panic.

He is calmer than the common Beastman — the Voice-of-Chaos speaks less loudly in him, perhaps because the horse-half tempers the Hunger. His Virtue is Endurance; he hunts for days without halt, crosses forests no horse can pass, charges full and stays master of his gallop. On the field he commands Centaur Packs that harry flanks and pursue routers. His lance is forged of mounted-knight bone, graven with Voice-glyphs. When a Centaur Chief falls, the Pack mourns little but reforms swiftly — the run continues.

The Beastherds are the flesh of the Hordes — bipedal goat-creatures with short horns, jutting jaws, dark pelt, red gaze. None bears full armour — a few looted plates, a helm riveted onto the horns, a bark shield. None discusses an order — the Voice-of-Chaos speaks directly to their back, and the arm rises when it bids.

They fight in loose-to-dense formation by pressure. On the field they charge as a herd, bite in mêlée, loose short-bow shafts when given them. No human psychology touches them — fear, yes (they flee before a Tomb Sphinx, before a Treeman Ancient, before a Chaos Aspect), but not the common fear of human soldiers. They are the fear. When the Horde wins, they eat the dead. When it loses, they flee and reform another Horde the following season.

The Lesser Herds are the young Beastmen — not yet full-grown, not yet heavily Marked, not yet integrated into the main Horde. They follow the Beastherds behind, scavenge leftovers, harry the wounded, eat the drifting dead. No armour, no long blade; a club, claws, teeth.

They serve as flesh-screen on the field — the main Horde sets them ahead to absorb the first enemy shafts. The loss matters little; each Lesser Herd renews itself yearly (the bestial females lay in great number near the Tribe-Stone, and the newborn become young in seasons). Those who outlive their first battle become Beastherds a year later. Those who do not — the Voice calls them back. No burial, no chant. The Horde marches.

The Lesser Raiders are the swift-version of the Lesser Herds — selected for swiftness rather than mass, fitted with short bows and javelins, trained for harassment rather than shock. They scout the vanguard of the Hordes, hurl the first shafts, flee before the enemy riposte, begin again.

They are despised by the Beastherds — a Raider does not bite, and who does not bite is not truly a Beastman — but tolerated as useful. On the field they harry enemy flanks, fell enemy skirmishers, sometimes capture a wounded man for the Tribe-Stone (the Voice-of-Chaos prefers a living sacrifice to a corpse). When a Raider is taken by the enemy (it happens — a patient Sylvestrin sometimes catches one), the Horde does not redeem him. The Voice knows. The Horde marches.

Chaos Warhounds are the bound beasts of the Hordes — wolf-dogs mutated by exposure to the Tribe-Stone, greater than an ordinary wolf, fouler than a human war-hound. They bear no visible Marks, but their red gaze and black foam betray the corruption. They are not broken in the usual sense; they follow a Pack by habit and instinct.

A Hound-Master (ever a Beastman named by the Tribe-Stone) guides them by guttural cries. On the field they precede the charge, bite the panicked horses, tear isolated enemy skirmishers. No psychology touches them — a Chaos Warhound knows no fear; it is hungry. When the Master falls, the Hounds scatter and turn feral in the forest — they will return at the next Tribe-Stone and be taken up by another Master. The pack is eternal; the individual hounds are not.

The Boar Chariot is the charge-engine of the Hordes — two-wheeled chariot of dead wood, looted iron plates welded by Tribe-Stone heat, drawn by two giant Marked boars (each boar two metres at the shoulder, bone-yellow tusks, red eye). A Driver and a Javelin-Hurler ride, each fitted with a short axe for close work.

It charges in wedge, scythes through enemy ranks with axle-mounted blades, crushes skirmishers under the boars' hooves. The pace is swift — the boar runs fast — and the charge is fatal to who lacks the proper weapon. On the field two or three are aligned, no more — the team is not stable, and three is already optimistic. When a Chariot falls (an Albéen lance between a boar's eyes suffices), the boars break free and charge wildly into the enemy ranks. That, in itself, is an honourable end.

The War Beast Herd is the pure bestial unit — Marked giant boars, Vermont bears, sometimes one or two great wolves, with no rider nor chariot. They are led by a Beast-Master (a Beastman named by the Tribe-Stone) who guides them by cry and whip. No troop-harmony; each beast fights for itself but in the same direction.

On the field they precede the main Horde, bite enemy ranks, tear horses. Their charge is more scattered than a Chariot but broader — twenty to thirty beasts in loose formation can cover a front as wide as a whole skeletal Cohort. When the Master falls, the beasts become truly uncontrollable — charging friendly flanks as readily as enemy. The Horde learns to set them with care. When they die, they are eaten. It is ritual.

The Elite Herds are the most-Marked Beastmen short of Minotaurs — massive of body, two to three visible Marks, full armour looted and re-welded, heavy axe, sometimes an improvised halberd. They are fewer than the Beastherds (one in ten Hordes), but each is worth three common Beastmen.

They form the spine of a Horde's shock — they charge in the front, take the first contact, hold where Beastherds would break. Their Virtue is Endurance — not patience, but persistence in mêlée. On the field they serve as the Lord's close guard or the vanguard of great Hordes. When an Elite falls, the Horde wins or loses by whether the other Elites hold; they are the indicator. No Chief outlives the loss of more than half his Elites.

The Minotaur Herd is the absolute shock-unit of the Hordes — five to ten Minotaurs in loose formation, led by a Champion or a Lord. Each weighs more than a horse, stands taller than a Beastman, strikes harder than a small Tomb Sphinx. When a Minotaur Herd charges, the whole Horde steps aside to let it pass.

On the field their formation is sparse — each Minotaur needs room to swing his axe — but the cumulative mass is terrifying. They charge upon human pikemen and break the phalanx as a dune breaks a wall of sand; they charge upon Albéen knights and unhorse them by shoulder-blow; they charge upon Watcher Cohorts and reap the bones as one reaps wheat. When a Minotaur falls (a Screaming Skull Catapult suffices, sometimes), the others eat the body before pressing on. The Voice knows.

The Harpies are the winged female-beasts of the Hordes — woman's body twisted into bird-of-prey, naked wings, talons for feet. They live in the high dead trees around the Tribe-Stones, descend only at a Shaman's ritual call, and fight in wild bands.

On the field they dive upon enemy flanks, tear the faces of exposed pikemen, fell standard-bearers. Their ritual cry is a high howl that disorders horses and breaks the concentration of Albéen Damsels or Watcher Hierophants. They do not form — they swarm. No psychology touches them; no Mark fully controls them either (Harpies are an incomplete mutation, or too complete, by which Shaman one asks). When a Harpy band is scattered by massed shot, the survivors regain the heights and return another season.

The Centaur Herd is the Hordes' natural cavalry — twenty to fifty Centaurs in loose formation, led by a Centaur Chieftain. Swifter than Sylvestrin Wild Riders, heavier than Albéen Mounted Yeomen, more disciplined (relatively) than Watcher Skeleton Horsemen.

On the field they harass enemy flanks, charge when the chance opens, flee when the riposte comes. They are valuable against Watcher Cohorts (a Centaur does not halt for a Skeleton he tramples) and against human Riders (a Centaur bites the human steed too). Their Virtue is Swiftness; they do not hold ground, they cross it. When the Pack is scattered, it reforms within minutes — each Centaur has a herd-memory that brings him back to the Chief. No Horde has lost a whole Centaur Herd in the Horn-Chant annals.

The Dragon Ogre is a rare and ancient mutation — ogre-body, dragon-tail, scales down the back, long recurved horns. He lives at the most distant margins of the Hordes, more solitary than the common Beastman, less dependent on the Tribe-Stone than on his own individual strength. Some Shamans say he is a true Dragon of the Age of Legends who accepted the mutation to escape the Death of Dragons; others that he is an Ogre of the Vermont who accumulated so many Marks he became something else.

He fights afoot (the dragon-tail makes him a poor rider), bears a great double-bladed axe or a long-spiked mace, and strikes with force surpassing a Minotaur's. His Virtue is Permanence — a Dragon-Ogre lives two or three centuries, which no Beastman attains. He does not reproduce (the Hordes do not know how); each Dragon-Ogre is unique. When one dies, the loss of a whole Minotaur Pack is mourned. The Voice knows. The Voice remembers.

The War Beast Chariot is the improvised version of the Boar Chariot — instead of two boars, a mixed team of two to four War Beasts (boars, bears, sometimes a great wolf, sometimes an unlikely blend the Voice-of-Chaos has held together by Mark). The result is swifter, more unstable, and far more lethal than the ordinary Boar Chariot.

It charges unpredictably — the team gallops in sometimes-divergent directions, and the chariot turns, swerves, strikes by chance. On the field it is used against enemies who anticipate a straight-line charge (Albéen cavalry, human phalanx); they do not anticipate a chariot that gallops in zigzag. When the chariot falls (it happens — a panicked team tears itself apart), the War Beasts break free and charge independently. The result remains favourable to the Horde.

The Cockatrice is a rare beast-monster — body of a giant rooster, serpent tail, short wings, a gaze that partially petrifies any who cross it. He lives in the corrupted woods nearest the principal Tribe-Stones, where the Voice-of-Chaos has concentrated enough to make this impossible bird. No Horde truly owns him — he accompanies, follows, hunts beside.

On the field his petrifying gaze turns men to fissured stone — not fully, but enough to slow them, expose them to blows, break their levelled lances. His bite is venomous. His Virtue is Singularity — but one Cockatrice per Horde, no more. When he falls (rarely — his gaze suffices to deter most direct attackers), a Shaman conducts a Tribe-Stone rite to call another Cockatrice from a deeper corrupted wood. It may take seasons.

The Shrieking Terror is a singular mutation — a winged creature with twisted goat-body, a maw three times too wide, a cry that paralyses the nerves. She does not fight by mêlée — she howls. Her howl is no ordinary sound; it is a Voice-of-Chaos vibration that passes through skin, makes human soldiers lose sphincter control, panics horses within a hundred paces.

On the field she flies over enemy ranks, howls, and leaves before the arrows can reach her. No armour protects from the howl — it is psychic, near-magical. Her Virtue is Demoralisation. When she falls (a Watcher Screaming Skull Catapult shot can take her, by chance), the silence that follows is yet more terrifying — the Horde learns that the Terror can die, and the Horde stirs. Another Terror forms in an adjacent corrupted wood within the decade.

The Cyclopean Giant is an extreme mutation of the common giant — nearly double height (four to five metres), a single eye on the brow (the second has fused), asymmetric teeth, a single horn at the crown. He thinks only in fragments; the Hordes handle him by shouts and goads, and he obeys until he is hungry, when he eats whatever is in reach — Beastmen included.

On the field he advances at a pace that quakes the ground, strikes with a club (commonly an iron-shod tree-trunk) that crushes chariots and horses. His Virtue is Scale. He fights alone or in pair — a band of three is unmanageable. When he falls (a Tomb Sphinx lance, Cathayan lightning, a Knight of the Dawn charge with Shard), the Horde eats the body within a day. The feast is seen leagues off.

The Blood Fiend is a pure Mark-beast — not a true daemon of Chaos (those are with the Ruinbearers), but the extreme mutation of a Beastman who has accumulated so many Marks the flesh has dissolved into something else. Four arms, six eyes, black-red hide, a tongue split in three. He no longer thinks at all — he senses, he hunts, he tears.

He is rare — one per major Horde, no more. On the field he charges in absolute vanguard, bites, smothers, tears. No armour holds; no shield halts his four arms. His Virtue is pure Frenzy. He cannot be commanded — he is loosed in the enemy's direction and the Voice is trusted to guide him to the right ones. When he falls (an Ushabti suffices, sometimes; an enemy Cyclopean Giant also), the Horde eats. The Voice knows.

The Dragon Ogre Ancient is the elder of his kind — a Dragon-Ogre who has passed two centuries, sometimes three, without dying. His form has grown more dragonic with age; scales now cover the torso, the tail is longer, the breath can quake the air without yet burning. He lives in the deepest margins of the corrupted woods, sleeps for whole decades, wakes only at ritual summons to a Great Chase.

On the field he walks at the centre of the major Horde, strikes with tail-blows that sweep enemy ranks, bites with bone-teeth that crush armour. His Virtue is absolute Veterancy — he has seen three centuries of Hordes, lived two minor Collapses, outlived ten Great Chases. When he falls (never in the Shamans' memory), the Horde will have lost its centre. No Horde has outlived the loss of a Dragon Ogre Ancient.

The Chaos Giant is the Marked version of the common giant — caught young in the Vermont by a Shaman, exposed two decades to a Tribe-Stone, and brought out adult with two to five visible Marks (horns, black skin, second jaw). He is larger than a Cyclopean Giant but less extreme in mutation, more controllable yet less powerful individually.

On the field he serves as a fulcrum — the Horde turns about him, the Shaman channels spells from his height, the common Beastmen fear the enemy less when the Giant walks. His Virtue is Presence. He strikes with a tree-trunk mace, hurls rocks he picks up along the way, crushes chariots that venture too near. When he falls (rarely — heavy to kill), the Horde eats him within two days. The feast is seen for leagues.