Krotter

Krotter are heavy, muscular herd beasts like big yaks, with long, stringy coats that nearly brush the ground, sharply humped backs, two small jagged antlers that are useless for fighting, and surprisingly small cloven hooves. Their narrow eyes sit deep in folds of fat that guard against snow glare and wind-driven grit. Most are dingy ivory, some brown, black or dull red.

Their thick hide and fat suit bitter cold, not battle. A threatened krotter can only kick with its strong forelegs and occasionally bite with its powerful, tugging jaws. With room, one can charge once, moving at 12 for double kick damage, though its bulk prevents a second try.

Dim as they are, they have an odd instinct that defeats the usual methods used to catch or kill them: pack tactics, snares and lures, and ordinary herding all tend to fail.

Their real danger is the stampede. Each time a krotter takes damage there is a 25% chance the herd bolts together toward the nearest enemy at movement 15. A target that cannot outrun it is hit automatically for 2d10 if the herd numbers 12 or more, or 1d12 for a smaller one, halved by a save vs. breath weapon. The herd then keeps running to safety and never wheels back to attack again.

Apart from their warning calls and trap sense, krotter are very stupid. They are usually silent but for a grunt or snort; when the herd passes an obviously living creature, each animal lets out a high whine as it spots it, a chain of warnings down the line. They graze the sparse arctic plants, and travelers lost in blizzards often follow a stray krotter, trusting it to reach a landmark eventually.

They do not fight for dominance like other cattle and can be quite cooperative, sleeping upright in tight huddles at night for warmth and safety. They breed fast: almost every cow calves nearly every year, and calves reach about half adult size within their first year.

The meat is poor by human standards, though many people eat it. Many arctic cultures herd krotter, including nearly all the giant-kin tribes of a frozen mountain range, where the herds roaming the central valley matter so much that the giant population rises and falls with theirs; a plague in the herds means dead giants in the steadings. Hides become parkas, tents and other winter gear and burn the fat in lamps and campfires.