Centigors

Centigors are among the strangest of the Beasts of Chaos, their upper bodies those of brutish beastmen, their lower halves the powerful frames of horned horses. This gives them the speed of cavalry and the savagery of the braytribes both, and they range across the battlefield in reeling, thunderous mobs, hooves churning the earth.

They are also perpetually, belligerently drunk. Centigors brew a foul liquor they carry into battle in great skins, and they fight best with the stuff sloshing in their bellies, their courage and fury inflamed even as their aim and footing grow treacherous. A Centigor charge is a fearsome, chaotic thing: a stampede of drunken muscle and spear-points that can shatter a formation outright or veer off after some imagined slight. Prideful and quarrelsome, they resent taking orders and squabble endlessly among themselves, yet when a worthy warleader wins their respect they become a devastating fast-attack, hurling themselves at the foe with reckless, roaring abandon and trampling the fallen beneath their hooves.