Ichoran
The Children of Blood
The Ichorans are mortals forever altered by the blood of devils, either through direct consumption or by inheriting the tainted lineage of their ancestors. Their forms bear the marks of this infernal legacy, with skin tones ranging from deep reds and purples to ashen greys and pale whites. Their wings, either leathery and bat-like or starkly feathered, are reminders of the diverse nature of their heritage. More than just a visual change, their very biology has adapted to the unnatural energies of the Cryptokeep, allowing them to survive—and even thrive—in a realm where negative energy would unravel lesser beings.
The Cryptokeep, a realm infused with the essence of undeath, does not reject the Ichorans as it does other mortals. Where others would wither, they endure, their bodies metabolizing the void’s deathly energy rather than succumbing to it. Wounds that would fester with necrotic corruption on others are instead absorbed into the Ichoran's essence, sometimes even making them stronger. Yet this comes at a cost—healing magic is less effective on them, forcing them to rely on their own regenerative rites or blood-bound relics passed through the ages. Their blood, shimmering with a metallic sheen, is sacred to them and forbidden from being spilled wastefully. To bleed is not weakness but sacrifice, a sign of devotion to their ancestors, their bloodlines, and their infernal heritage.
The Blood Clans and Their Eternal Struggles
Ichoran society is fractured yet bound by ties stronger than steel. Their world is one of Blood Clans, each tracing its lineage back to a Blood Founder—a devil whose ichor first flowed through their ancestors' veins. These clans are vast and fiercely territorial, their leaders acting as both warlords and stewards of their infernal legacy. A patriarch or matriarch, often the oldest and most powerful of their kin, governs with an iron will, maintaining direct or tenuous communication with their Blood Founder. To lead is not a privilege but a right earned through cunning, strength, and unwavering resolve.
Among the clans, relationships vary as wildly as the temperaments of their progenitor devils. Some clans hold unshakable alliances, considering one another kin regardless of blood. Others are locked in endless feuds, mirroring the rivalries of the devils they descend from. Some Blood Founders demand absolute fealty, ruling their descendants as tyrants, while others remain indifferent, unleashing their progeny upon the world without care or guidance. There are even whispers of clans that have severed their infernal ties altogether, seeking freedom from the bonds of their creators, though such acts of rebellion rarely go unanswered.
Legacy is everything to an Ichoran. The deeds of ancestors shape the present, and the weight of history is carried on the shoulders of every new generation. Each clan keeps an ancestral tome, meticulously maintained by the Tome Master, a role sacred to their people. These records do more than preserve history—they are proof of a clan’s worth. The loss of a blood tome is as grievous as the loss of a king, and to be erased from history is the ultimate dishonor.
A Life of Blood and War
The Ichorans live in a world of constant conflict, from external threats to the never-ending power struggles within their own ranks. Beyond their feuds, they face an ever-present danger—the tide of demons that rise from the Sea of Souls, an endless abyss that spews forth horrors into the Cryptokeep. To counter these incursions, rival clans will sometimes set aside their differences to form Hematic Raiding Parties, temporary warbands that venture into the abyssal tides to cull the rising demonic swarms. These raids serve not only as a necessity for survival but as a proving ground, a rite of passage where young warriors earn their place and seasoned fighters settle old scores.
For some, these raids offer an escape from their rigid clan duties. Some Ichorans, disillusioned with their blood ties, abandon their clans entirely, becoming mercenaries who sell their infernal talents to the highest bidder. Others use these raids to forge new alliances, finding kinship outside of their ancestral bloodlines.
Yet the Ichorans' battles do not end when the fighting stops. The Cryptokeep is a realm where the dead refuse to rest, and to leave a fallen warrior’s body behind is to create another enemy. After battle, the Ichorans gather their dead, constructing massive pyres to burn their kin before they can be twisted into weapons against them. These ashes are then returned to their clans, kept in urns or forged into talismans, carried into battle as both a reminder and a source of strength. Some warriors even mix the ashes into their armor and weapons, believing they fight with the spirits of their ancestors at their side.
The Unbound & The Heretics
While most Ichorans embrace their infernal blood as both a birthright and a sacred duty, there are those who reject their lineage entirely. These are the Unbound—Ichorans who have undergone agonizing rituals to sever their ties to their Blood Founders, cutting themselves off from their infernal heritage.
This process is not without consequences. An Unbound Ichoran often experiences an unnatural stillness in their blood, as if something vital has been torn away. Many of them lose access to the gifts granted by their infernal ancestors but gain a new resilience—free from the whispers and commands of devils, they are harder to charm, control, or corrupt. Some even become anathema to their former kin, their very presence burning against infernal creatures like a brand.
Even more extreme are the Heretics, Ichorans who not only reject their infernal lineage but actively seek to undo it. Some turn to celestial forces, hoping that divine intervention might cleanse their bloodline. Others experiment with profane alchemy, void magic, or ancient relics from forgotten times, searching for a way to rewrite the foundation of their being.
Most Blood Clans consider Unbound Ichorans to be lost souls—tragic, but ultimately beneath notice. Heretics, however, are hunted. Blood Clans believe that attempting to erase one's infernal heritage is an insult to their ancestors and an act of rebellion against the natural order. Some whisper that the Blood Founders themselves fear the Heretics, as they represent the one thing even a devil cannot control: the will to change.
Blood Magic
Blood is power. Blood is memory. Blood is binding. The Ichorans have long understood this, for it is in their very nature—an inheritance from the devils whose essence taints their veins. But blood is only half of the equation. Where blood governs the body, the soul governs the self. To wield both is to court ruin, yet some dare to grasp at that power, knowing that the line between mastery and oblivion is razor-thin.
An Ichoran’s blood is more than simple vitae—it is a conduit of will, thick with infernal potency, humming with the echoes of their Blood Founder’s power. To spill it is an offering; to control it is a declaration of dominance. Blood magic is not a passive art—it is taken, wrenched from the body, reshaped, and repurposed through sheer force of intent. Some Ichorans carve sigils into their skin to guide its flow, while others let instinct drive them, feeling the pulse of their lineage guiding their hand.
With blood magic, the more one gives, the greater the reward, so long as one knows there is a threshold where the body can give no more. Warriors weave their own blood into jagged weapons, striking with blades formed from their essence. Sages draw upon ancestral ichor to stir memories long buried, walking in the footsteps of those who came before. Blood can bind as well as it wounds—an oath sealed in blood is unbreakable, a curse cast with a personal offering will fester until the target’s last breath. And for those who push too far, there is always the risk of awakening something deeper, something primal—a hunger for more, a desire to spill and take until nothing remains but the thirst.
Blood-Clad Artifacts & Living Relics
Among the Ichorans, blood is power. Their greatest weapons, armor, and relics are forged from the blood of their ancestors, infused with infernal energy, and passed down through generations.
Blood-Clad Artifacts
Blood-Clad Artifacts are extensions of a bloodline’s legacy, each one carrying the memories, ambitions, and lingering emotions of those who wielded them before. These relics grow stronger the longer they remain in a single bloodline, feeding off the wielder’s triumphs and sacrifices.
To wield a Blood-Clad Artifact is to accept a burden of blood. These objects often whisper to their wielders, urging them to uphold the honor of their ancestors—or to surpass them by any means necessary. Some artifacts require a blood sacrifice to unleash their full power, demanding a portion of their wielder’s vitality in exchange for devastating abilities.
Soul Relics
Some artifacts go beyond mere whispers. A Soul Relic is an object that contains the soul—or at least an imprint—of a past Ichoran warrior, leader, or seer. These relics do not just guide their wielders; they speak, think, and sometimes fight for control.
Some Ichoran willingly bind themselves into weapons or armor upon death, choosing to continue serving their clans beyond the grave. Others, however, are forced into relics against their will, their essence trapped as a punishment or as a means of eternal servitude.
Wielding a Living Relic is a dangerous proposition. While some form powerful bonds with their wielders, granting them supernatural insight or abilities, others resent being bound and will actively struggle against their owners.
Perspective: Trust From Honor, Honor From Blood
The Cryptokeep pulsed with unnatural life, its air thick with the stench of rot and something far older—something watching. The ruins stretched endlessly, black stone jagged as broken teeth, and beneath them, the earth trembled with the coming storm.
Ithra had spent her entire life training for this moment.
She crouched low, the weight of her twin axes familiar in her grip, her eyes locked on the mist-choked expanse ahead. Somewhere in that swirling abyss, the demons were gathering. She could hear them—the scraping of claws on stone, the guttural snarls of creatures that had never known a mortal shape.
And beside her, like an omen of bad fortune, stood her sworn enemy.
Varok had killed her cousin.
Not in the heat of war, not in battle, but in a blood duel—a personal feud that had ended in her clanmate’s body lying broken upon the sacred stones of their ancestors. His crime was not in the killing, but in the arrogance with which he had done it. And now I am to fight beside him?
The insult burned.
Yet there was no choice. The demons did not care for clan rivalries, nor for the long-standing hatred between the House of Acharis and the House of Urzhal. The tide of the Sea of Souls rose higher every day, and tonight, it would break upon them both.
For this raid, she would stand beside Varok. For this battle, they would be kin.
But when the fighting was done?
She would drive a blade into his heart.
"Hold."
Varok’s voice was a low growl, barely more than a breath against the silence. Ithra stiffened but obeyed, even as her instincts screamed at her to keep moving.
Ahead, the mist shifted.
A ripple in the dark.
Then came the whisper of something wet sliding across the stones.
A pair of eyes, luminous and slit-pupiled, emerged from the fog—then another. And another. A dozen, at least, slinking between the ruins, shapes flickering between beast and shadow. Bevioks
They were not the strongest demons, but they were the most insidious. They did not charge—they waited. They did not roar—they whispered. Ithra felt the tendrils of their voices coil around her mind, tempting her, unraveling her anger into something colder.
"Your rage is wasted."
"Kill him. Spill his blood here. Let us feast together."
Varok tensed beside her, his own thoughts under siege. He hears them too.
Ithra’s grip tightened on her axes. She had seen what happened to warriors who hesitated.
"Strike first."
She lunged.
The world became a blur of violence.
Steel met flesh, and flesh met ruin. The demons surged, a writhing mass of bone and claw, their bodies shifting with every wound, their mouths opening too wide to scream. Ithra’s axes carved through them like butcher’s knives, but no matter how many she struck down, more rose in their place.
She fought like a storm, a whirlwind of death—yet for every blow she landed, Varok was there beside her, cutting down another before it could lunge for her throat.
She hated him for it.
Hated that she needed him.
Hated that, even as they fought, she began to understand why he had won the duel against her cousin.
The man was a monster.
Varok did not fight like a warrior—he fought like something born from the Cryptokeep itself. His greatsword cleaved through demon after demon, his movements slow but deliberate, each strike placed with grim finality. He did not waste energy. He did not falter.
Even when a Voidstalker’s claws raked his side, tearing through the armor at his ribs, he did not cry out.
Ithra did not know why she moved to cover him.
She only knew that she did.
The last demon died gurgling on its own ichor.
Ithra stood panting in the ruins, blood soaking her arms, her legs shaking from exhaustion. The silence was deafening, broken only by the wind howling through the broken stone.
And beside her, Varok leaned against his sword, his breath heavy. His wound bled sluggishly, dark and thick, and yet his expression remained unreadable.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Varok let out a dry, bitter laugh.
"Still alive, then?"
Ithra turned to him. Her heart was still pounding—not from battle, but from the promise she had made herself.
When the fighting is done, I will kill him.
She could do it now.
His wound had slowed him. He was tired. One strike—one quick strike, before he could react—and she could take his head.
And yet.
Her hands would not move.
She watched the blood drip from his wound, the same color as hers. She thought of the demons whispering in her ear, of the moment she had moved to cover him without thinking, of the way he had fought beside her as if they had trained together their whole lives.
She swallowed.
The rage had not gone. But it had changed.
"We are not finished here," she said at last.
Varok’s brow furrowed. Then, slowly, he nodded.
Neither of them sheathed their weapons.
Neither of them turned their backs.
But when the two warriors left the battlefield together, they did not walk apart.
They walked side by side.
Perspective: The First Chains
Doraxia Hhunes opened her eyes.
She felt lighter—unmoored, as if her body no longer belonged to the world she knew. Looking down at herself, she realized why: her form was immaterial, flickering like a dying ember in the wind.
Her head burned. What had happened?
She remembered—
An argument.
Yelling.
Then a sound—a gunshot, a crack of steel on bone, a shattering force.
And now… darkness.
The air around her was thick as blood, the stench of death clinging to her like a second skin. Moments ago, her home had stood here—now, only the swirling energies of undeath remained.
A tremor of horror ran through her. Am I dead?
But this was not death… was it?
The thought had barely formed before her body shimmered, and suddenly—painfully—she fell.
Stone slammed into her with unforgiving force, her arms scraping against the rough surface. She gasped, feeling the burning wounds laced across her body, their edges raw like iron heated in a forge. Each breath came in ragged gasps, but she did not cry out.
She was past pain.
Past fear.
Only rage remained, burning hotter than the cursed sun that never truly rose over this forsaken realm.
And then—something moved in the dark.
A figure wrapped in the remnants of celestial glory.
Four great wings stretched behind it, black as the void, blotting out the dim, ghostly light. As it stepped closer, its presence pressed upon reality itself, its very being demanding obedience.
Doraxia lifted her head. The being’s face was pale, its silvered skin reflecting what little light remained. Its expression was stern, hardened by untold centuries. It looked like an angel—a false echo of something once divine, now long since cast out.
Then it spoke.
"Rise."
The voice was like a funeral hymn, filled with something ancient and knowing.
"You have fallen, but I offer you a new path. A chance to reclaim what was stolen. To carve justice from the flesh of the guilty."
Doraxia’s fingers curled into fists, nails biting deep into her palms. Justice? No. That word was too soft. Too weak.
She did not want justice.
She wanted vengeance.
"I was raised on lies," she spat, her voice thick with fury. "My parents filled my head with stories of the Hellriders—their honor, their sacrifice. They swore we were descended from heroes. But it was all a lie."
Her teeth clenched.
"They were cowards. They abandoned their brothers and sisters to die in the Cryptokeep and fled like thieves in the night. And now we live on stolen valor, pretending we are something we are not."
The Avatar tilted its head, unreadable.
"And what will you do with this knowledge?"
Doraxia’s lip curled. "Burn their legacy to the ground. I will erase their names from history, as they deserve. And then I will hunt down their true comrades—the ones they left behind, the ones who were forsaken." Her breath trembled with fury. "And I will make it right."
A pause. Then, a slow nod.
"Then we are of one mind."
From the folds of its ruined armor, the Avatar produced a vial. Inside, the liquid pulsed like molten metal, shifting between hues of crimson and black.
"The path I offer is not easy," it continued. "You will never be what you once were. You will be remade in fire and blood, bound to a power older than your ancestors' shame."
Doraxia reached for the vial without hesitation.
"You will belong to me," the Avatar warned.
She snarled. "I belong to no one."
She popped the stopper.
The scent hit her first—rich, heady, laced with something that burned the inside of her nostrils. It smelled like fire and regret, like the battlefield at dawn when the corpses still smoldered.
She tipped the vial back and drank.
The taste was unbearable. Scorching, metallic, thick with power that clawed its way down her throat. It filled her veins like lightning, her heartbeat pounding like a war drum. She gasped, fingers digging into the dirt as the change took hold—her body twisting, breaking, reshaping itself into something new.
Something stronger.
Pain unlike anything she had ever known wracked her limbs, but still, she did not scream.
She had suffered enough for one lifetime.
And when she finally rose, panting, unbroken, and remade—
She knew that she had been right.
She would do anything for revenge.
And now, she had the power to claim it.
Ichoran Names
Kaishoon
Zarakos
Ralchar
Ebira
Sirchar
Kaishoon
Salmarir
Karis
Thylech
Garil
Doraxia
Varok
Thalletch
Ichoran Traits
D&D 5th Edition
CD&D 5th Edition
Creature Type: Fiend
Size: Medium
Height: Similar to Humans
Weight :Similar to Humans
Age: Reach Maturity at the same rate of a human but live for 400 years.
Speed: 30 Feet
Abilities
Darkvision. Having your blood tainted with dark aura, your vision can easily cut through darkness. You can see in dim light within 60 feet of you as if it were bright light, and in darkness as if it were dim light. You can't discern color in darkness, only shades of gray.
Wings of Ichor: You have a flying speed of 30.
Tainted Soul: Starting at 3rd level, you can use your action to unleash the tainted soul within yourself, causing your eyes to pool with blood and your wings to surge with a sinister power.
Your transformation lasts for 1 minute or until you end it as a bonus action. During it, you are unable to be hit from opportunity attacks while using your flying speed, and once on each of your turns, you can deal extra radiant damage to one target when you deal damage to it with an attack or a spell. The extra radiant damage equals your level.
Once you use this trait, you can't use it again until you finish a long rest.