Minotaurs are the herd's living rams — bull-headed giants whose charge lands like a falling oak. A line of them striking a regiment does not so much break it as erase the section it hit, horns and axes and sheer tonnage churning men into the mud. Herds prize them the way armies prize artillery, and steer them with roughly as much conversation.
The price of that power is the bloodgreed. The smell of opened flesh drowns a minotaur's mind; mid-battle, victorious minotaurs will stop to feed on the fallen while the fighting rages around them, and no beast of the herd is fool enough to interrupt. Only a doombull — a minotaur grown vast and cunning on a lifetime of slaughter — can drive them past a fresh kill, and doombulls lead precisely because every minotaur remembers what happened to the last one that argued.
Order of battle
