This is something I had written which I came across in the depths of my hard-drive and improved it a bit over the past few days. Not really Shadowrun, but I thought I would post it anyways.

-Lauri





On the plane Exanclo there lie the ruins of a citadel, through caved in passage-ways, and perilous casements can one reach the dome of the hall of the keep. Here a mural, faded, cracked, and ichor spattered, tells the tale of the fair city that once stood here.

Ages before the demihuman races were dreamt of by their erstwhile gods, the celestials maintained their outpost here upon this plane. At first it was a simple frontier-post to guard against the on-going war between demon and devil. As both were less interested in the celestial as they were more interested in their own war, they left this plane alone. Commerce developed among the planewalkers, and countless ages of tribute, taxation, and trade grew this from a stockade, to a fort, to a castle, to a citadel. The gentle climate and the mountainous geography was well suited for celestials and they and many other good and pure beings prospered, building their villas and their many houses nestling amongst the lofty heights near to the citadel.

As the tanar'ri and the baatezu expanded, they brought their own mark of villainy with them to this plane. At first it was the few tanar'ri who would drift by through to other planes. As this became a steady trickle, these would be hunted down before they could cause hurt among their community. At times it became a sport among the guards at the citadel, to see how many could they kill. Some archon and aasimon households appalled by such behaviour took to hiding and ferrying these brave, but lost souls to the safety of other planes. As the expansion of demons and devils continued it was no longer sport but strife, households who once had helped the wayward tanar'ri became polarized. There were hidden arguments in households and forbidden children were masked to be wholesome and those horrific would be ferreted away to planes unknown.

The expansion became conquest, upon other celestial holds strife became open warfare. On Arcana, the baatezu had instigated a plane-wide rebellion against the celestials, from which the celestials ill advised and ill perceiving retreated from. The carnage that followed left a permanent stain of dishonour on all celestials, and the destruction of their temples and the pillage of their people's good will became the unbearable strain. What were once dissenting voices grew into one formidable wall of opposition. Exanclo shuddered and rent along lines of hate. What once was a pleasant citadel became a grim fortress, as more troops were called in. Citizens were called to defend their homes. Those households who were considered to be sources of taint were mocked at first. The resentment and anger grew each day as further news of loved ones lost reached their ears, until the hurt became so unbearable that those considered to be tainted were overthrown from their homes by their own neighbours.

As Exanclo grew only small expeditions were sent into the realms of the demons. As the forces of the celestials and their allies massed, these tentative explorations gave way to the sudden flash-flood of pure rage. The celestials attacked the Tanar'ri as a giant tidal wave sweeping away all that was loathsome from their vision. The tanar'ri were surprised and shocked as fortresses they thought long impregnable were razed and whole planes nearly overnight shifted into the hands of the heavenly host. Never before had they felt such a vengeance. At first there was the chaos of uncertainty, as the hero Wyrdan with his host arrayed in parade splendour knocked on the doors of the fortress of Gallowhill, demanding for Tarmanda to feel sharp spear and faithful sword. From that chaos only the sense of unbridled lust for warfare could be felt, the familial feud between the tanar'ri and the baatezu shifted its gaze from one and another to that of driving the celestials from their domain. What was once a heavenly host was scattered and driven back to Celestia, with only 3000 warriors surviving the combined onslaught.

Wyrdan harrowed by an on-rush of tanar'ri warriors, with courage and bravery overcame such difficulties and was able to at great cost to close some of the gates as they retreated back to Exanclo. There tired, battered, bruised, and gore spattered they held their ground against the horde of the tanar'ri so that not one of these fell monsters could touch their hallowed primal home. At times their only defence against the swell of their siege-makers were the walls of the ever piling dead. Weary and desperate, for Celestia was in disarray, Wyrdan commanded his clerics and paladins to pray for a miracle, but even the gods seem to spit on them as green ground was rent asunder and lightning mockingly danced upon the citadel. For three days neither side could approach the other for fear of the storm. On the third night a stranger heaved open the doors to the royal hall.

Who the stranger was is unsure, the face of him has been all but erased off the mural and no magic has been able to penetrate the veil of ages past, but he came in the skin of a black man, with cogs hanging from his girdle, his cloak stained in a multicolour hue. His head shaven, his eyes dark orbs. He spoke eloquently yet simply, he wondered why he had been called upon for they were not his servants. He looked at their grim faces, and the faces of those who had been left behind and who had not escaped. He praised them for their fortitude, and that he wished to speak with Wyrdan alone. Wyrdan wounded from many a cut drove himself to his feet, and said that nothing he would hear could be left from the ears of those who had been willing to spill so much blood for their defence.

The man looked Wyrdan in the eye and explained that the horde outside would continue to grow and there was nothing the defenders could do to curb Tarmanda's fury as the reward for Wyrdan's head was so great that even the gods took note of it. They could survive but only just. The storm would only last three more days before it would be spent and then they would all be lost. He warned he would need recompense and that recompense would be heavy. Wyrdan, desperate and gods forsaken, took this desperate offer. The man selected volunteers from among those of the inhabitants of Exanclo who had survived; he took all their prisoners, the dead, and the hall as his own. And bade them to strengthen their defences and prepare such equipment as he would need.

The open space under the dome of the keep is still filled with dark and wondrous devices. Benches with wicked implements stand next to tables long since collapsed, marks of what may have once been tomes and vials still litter under foot. In some places of the keep where a wondrous contraption once stood time seems to move sluggishly in others as a blur.

The mural displays the machine with needles and knives connected to glassen collectors, from among the warrens of brass pipes spigots emerge, each filling a vials drip by drip. Until the end of the storm, that of the third day, shrieks would be heard echoing from the citadel that made the tanar'ri smile. On the fourth day the storm had begun to abate and the man resolutely walked out, his robe blood spattered. There he gave each a ladle full from a cauldron. It filled each warrior with strength, old wounds re-knit themselves and an iron determination settled upon their shoulders. Leaving them to the fighting, he returned to the domed chamber. The defenders fought with unbridled courage against such insurmountable odds, leaving their enemy confused and bewildered long enough withstand another day. Wyrdan brimming with berserk rage was many a time pierced with wicked darts and hacked at with foul axes.

On the fifth day, the man brought them fresh troops from amongst those thought dead. Every complaint died on their lips as their gullet was warmed with the potion. For among their new defenders were what had once been the slain enemy. Far too quick were they in giving him Wyrdan to mend even though the potion could not scar these wounds. The battle ran unabated. Confusion set in amongst the ranks as demons fought demon. There was no way of accounting who the actual tanar'ri were and which among them were the defenders newly awakened allies. The tanar'ri army's fury turned against itself.

A forge can still be found in one corner of the keep, discarded and broken armour and weapons had been strewn about, some still glint with an odd hue.

On the sixth day the man brought them armour, that neither sword could hue nor axe pierce. Those still alive had begun to hunger for blood. Desperation was superseded by brutality. What little reason was left died as they saw Wyrdan come from the dome hale and whole, his rubious armour gleaming. Those left, the children, the mothers and the elderly were herded back into the chamber to be turned into fresh creations. The man returned to the hall, closing the doors behind. The defenders charged into the ranks of the tanar'ri filled with surety of their conviction, they pierced the lines of their enemy fighting to the generals of the army, and on that day they tasted the blood of others and slew their first demon-general, capturing his entourage.

A gash in time reveals a space where the bodies that make the machine can still be seen. A young celestial, her bodice ripped hangs in the air in horror, her hair dangling in every which way as her womb has withered away. A dragon long dead is pierced with many a pipe, occasionally a whimper of smoke can be seen as the strange concoctions build up. A tanar’ri his body a withered husk, his brain laid open, with nails sticking out of his cortex, as he continuously dips his head as if to eat.

On the seventh day, the man returned from the hall with fresh warriors, all plated and corseleted. What was once demon and celestial had become ill-defined, even before the rest had donned new armour and quaffed deeply of the potion, their visages hate-filled. Among the captured entourage of the tanar’ri generals the man spied and picked a succubus. Taking out his knife, he carved her flesh in the patterns of her veins. The smell of freshly dripping blood became all consuming as they tore her and the rest of the entourage into bloody spatter. Satisfied with such brutality, he gave them a key to open a gate. Those brave among this new host, he kissed on their plated breasts, and whispered untold secrets into their ears. He looked on as they carved their way through the tanar'ri with ever shortening shadows towards their ever deepening salvation.

The Blood-War had thus begat its own off-spring. The blood-bound.

The many kinds of Blood Bound

Other classes

The blood-bound is not only made up of warriors desiring the blood of others. Even a horde needs its blacksmiths, cooks, shepherds, and clerks. Who else is there who will fit the armour, tend to the slaves, and make sure the entire army works in a seamless fashion.



Volmar, was once a bureaucrat in Dis. He was in his own way his own worst enemy. His true gods were efficiency and expediency. Unlike most of the members of the baatezu bureaucracy, he was not interested in the power struggle and the in-fighting. He could navigate the halls of power with ease, but he never did that, except to expedite those tasks which had fallen to him. He was in his own way, an honest clerk in a place that foundation was built on lies.

Whenever he would walk to his spacious office next to the hall of records, it would be followed with dark looks and a sense of malpresence. He was certainly unliked for burning those who would go against him, and not reaching for any of the power that he was tempted with.

Finally, certain powers within Dis found him to be more than an irritation, and more like an eyesore. They conspired against him, and made sure that he would be a clerk on expedition that would certainly never return.

It was obvious that he was trapped. Whole archives, law texts had been usurped. His work-mates no longer recognized him, and his appeals fell upon ears that seemed to no longer be there. So, he and three others like him walked resolutely with their baggage to the portal into negative energy realm. He stood there, irresolute as the last one to pass, his enemies chuckling as he took his final step.

In a few moments his body began to shrivel and burn, as all that was living in him tried to escape. While the body shrivelled up and died he was stuck in a realm between living and dead. It took countless aeons before he was summoned by a necromancer who sought hidden powers. The necromancer had summoned Volmar to steal his skin. What a suprise it must have been when it was Volmar who clothed himself in the necromancer's flesh, and the poor necromancer's spirit was dragged and dispersed on the winds of the negative energy plane. There was an efficiency about it all that can only be described as Volmar's mark.

However, efficiency dislikes chaos and the possibility for error; and errors there were. Even though he was of flesh and bone, the trickle of negative energy still conected him to negative energy plane. He had transformed into a vampire. As he studied and learned he realized that his desire for the vitae in the blood would keep him alive, but that while freed of the negative energy plane he still stood between negative and positive energy. Loosening the final bonds could be possible, but that would demand a great amount of positive energy. An amount that could not be gained by a single person, but would demand whole peoples of trapped life essence.

He of course knew of the blood-bound, they were before considered to be mercenary scum in the circulars of Dis. His decision was to become a blood-bound, not because of the breaking of the bonds through the stealing of vitae. That would foolish. Rather, as his vitae would slowly be replaced by others his connection with the negative energy plane would lessen and his connection with the abyss would strengthen. Finally he would die, and be reborn as baatezu.

With a mind like a steel trap, never forgetting even one detail. He is responsible for the day to day operation of the blood-bound army. He works ceaselessly through the paper-work, acquisition forms, making sure that the cogs of this war machine turn, even if the grease needed is the blood of one of his henchmen.

Table of Organization:

The blood-bound army consist of six hosts, the first host consists of five hundred and thirty four foot-soldiers and sixty-six mounted warriors. These skilled, blood thirsty warriors are drawn up first on the left of the second host.

The second host exceeds the others in both numbers and quality of its blood-bound, they are the centre of the army, and the first to engage in battle. It consists of one thousand and sixty-eight foot-soldiers and one hundred and thirty-two mounted warriors. This host carries the banner of the blood-bound, the standard of the whole army.

The third contains five hundred and thirty four foot soldiers and sixty-six mounted warriors. These three hosts compose the first line. First, and third, hosts are meant to cover attacks on the second host, the mounted warriors of the fist and third host are meant to break lines of defence, harrass the enemy's cavalry, and harass possible reinforcements.

The fourth host contains five hundred and thirty four foot-soldiers and sixty-six mounted warriors. The fifth host consists of one thousand and sixty-eight foot-soldiers and one hundred and thirty-two mounted warriors. The fifth host's primary purpose is to defend the second host, their number can be often greater but never below one thousand and sixty-eight foot-soldiers. Often they also have a large constituent of the herd with them.

The sixth host contains five hundred and thirty four foot-soldiers and sixty-six mounted warriors. The fourth and six hosts are meant to protect the fifth host and support the first line against break-through. The mounted warriors of the fourth and six hosts are meant to make surprise attacks on the sides of the enemy canalizing them towards the second host.

These six hosts form the complete blood-bound army, consisting in the whole of four thousand two hundred and seventy-two foot-soldiers and five hundred and twenty-eight mounted warriors. A blood-bound army will never be composed of a less number of warriors.

In addition to the main six hosts, the blood-bound will often raise additional hosts under the guidance of sergeants to do special tasks. This includes decoy hosts, archers, and siege engineers. They will array themselves on the first or second line, or if they are artillery or siege engineers, or kept in reserve then they will take up the position on the third line.

The seventh host is raised in situations of siege and defence and consists of 178 foot-soldiers and 33 mounted warriors. They are responsible for the day-to-day administrative tasks of the blood-bound, inventorying tribute, finding fresh slaves and maintaining lines of communication. They are often raised from amongst the commitatus and among the slaves themselves.

Each host is commanded by a lieutenant answerable to the Battle Tasker. The Battle Tasker also commands his Commitatus, consisting of thirty-three mounted warriors renowned for their ferocity, and his Talons, a sixty-six air mobile unit.

Tactics and unit composition:

The blood-bound prefer close combat with their enemy. Often they will charge a flank as a wedge, with a fleet footed blood-bound leading carrying two axes behind of which comes two shield bearers with diagonal shield walls on each side of the wedge hemming the blood-bound together.

There is no differentiation between heavy and light mounted warriors in the blood-bound army. They will often fight enemy cavalry mounted, harrass enemy infantry mounted, and kill fleeing enemy mounted. When canalizing they will charge the sides of the enemy, dismount and then attack the enemy.

Spellcasters are not prominent in the blood-bound army, even though most wise blood-bound lieutenants will maintain a small contingent of spellcasters among their foot-soldiers.

The primary objective of the blood-bound is to fill their blood-lust. Those in command know that objective may only be achieved through the fattening of their slave contingent, and that would mean the breaking of the will of the enemy, so that they will lay down their weapons and enter chattle-dom. However, the troops crave for blood and often wish to be the first to taste that on their blades, making far too adept at slaughtering in a gore filled orgy that which they would needs have later.