Icegrip Centaurs are hungry for torture…
The Ice Plains of Erendorn are perilous. Razor-edged shards of ice jut out of the frozen ground. Jagged mountains break the horizon, capped in white and rumbling like distant claps of thunder. It is bone-chillingly silent, except for the guttural screams that echo deep into the earth; and it is completely drained of colour, except for the streaks of deep, crimson blood that melt into the snow.
Here in the Ice Plains, Icegrip Centaurs hunt their next captives.
Hungry for torture, these creatures stalk their victims ruthlessly. With sickly pale, almost translucent skin, Icegrip Centaurs easily blend into the blankets of snow; and despite standing over 8 feet tall, they move as swiftly as the veils of mist passing over mountain tops.
Harbingers of the Hunt
If you ever find yourself wandering the Ice Plains, beware the sound of their horn.
Every day, a sinister lull falls on these scapes. Animals hide, the wind barely whispers, and even the distant mountains seem to stand still in trepidation as the sound of the Hunting Horns gently rise in the air.
Harbingers of the hunt and its ensuing onslaught, their deep, hollow sounds soar cleanly through the sapphire sky. The Icegrip Centaurs search for their captives in small Hunting Groups, usually led by a member of the elite. Carved from the bones of their victims, the Hunting Horns are used by the leaders to communicate during the hunt, their insidious sound signalling the success of a nearby Hunting Group or, even worse, a much larger Warband.
If you have the misfortune of being out in the Ice Plains when a nearby horn is sounded, you might very well be the target; and at that point, it is already too late.
Sick Display of Carnage
Once they find you – and they will find you – you will plead for death. Tightly binding their victims in razor-thin rope that slowly slices the skin, they drag their screaming captives across the frozen ground, the shards of ice tearing open their flesh. The Icegrip Centaurs are taking them back to their camp for the mass torture.
Away from Centaur territory, quiet villages lie motionlessly beneath the cold, clear sky, listening to the blood-curdling screams erupting in the distance, a sound as common as birdsong.
The Icegrip Centaurs are led by the savage and merciless Harathorn. Under his command, thousands of creatures, no matter what their race, have been slaughtered in the Ice Plains. Their frozen, lifeless corpses decorate the surrounding gates of Harathorn’s camp, impaled on black iron spikes that project from their gaping mouths.
This race’s sole purpose is to torture. Maniacal and psychotic, the insatiable appetite to cause anguish is coded into their very DNA. When they do finally torture their victims’ bodies past their furthest limits, delivering the slow, merciless death, the Icegrip Centaurs take their hoard of carcasses and add them to their sick display of carnage.