Ysbethael Tu Loth

[*sstiletto]

Basic Information
Name: Ysbethael tu Loth
Aliases: "Huntress"
Gender: Female
Race: Tiefling
Age: 21
Profession: Mercenary/Bounty Hunter
Languages: Infernal, Abyssal
Accent: An exaggerated crispness to the enunciation of words when speking in common, especially on soft consonants (Sh and Ch, for example, would come out sounding like "tch", while all G and J sounds would be the hard version of the letter)

Physical Information
Height: 5'3" (1.6 meters)
Weight: 120 lbs (54kg)
Body build: Broad-shouldered, with distinct muscle definition. There is no mistaking that this is a woman well-versed in combat.
Scars: Five narrow notches, long-healed, have been cut in the whorl of her left ear.

Colouring:

[b]Hair:[/b] Dark blonde [b]Eyes:[/b] Light gray [b]Skin:[/b] Dusky [/li]

Mental Information
Alignment: Neutral (Evil)
Philosophy: Life is a crucible for separating the weak from the strong. One should live life to its fullest, and always take the opportunity to test oneself when given. Morality is simply a product of one's environment, and the concerns of others should not take precedence over one's own desires.
Deity/Beliefs: Ysbeth does not worship a normal "god", being agnostic, but does revere almost to the point of worship certain powerful beings.
Personality:

[u]Outgoing[/u] [i]She does not mind crowds or meeting new people, and will often go out of her way to be in places frequented by others.[/i] [u]Impulsive[/u] [i]She will jump at the chance to try something she considers challenging, often without considering potential ramifications.[/i] [u]Sarcastic[/u] [i]Her sense of humor is dry, but she will apply it both with friends and with potential enemies.[/i] [u]Overconfident[/u] [i]she is certain of her own skills, and may believe herself more capable than she is.[/i] [/li]

Additional Information
Gear: She is armed almost exclusively with a longbow, and disdains close combat. Her choice in clothing changes often, but one can always be certait is will be cut to allow her limbs to move easily, and will be extremely lightweight to facilitate her speed. Around her throat she wears a buckled leather choker, from which descends a small golden talisman etched with black runes.
Jewelry: Both of her ears bear multiple piercings, and she prefers to wear intricate rings that may be connected by chains, or long earcuffs that make use of several piercings and encase a large portion of the ear.
Habbits/hobbies: Although her training and profession is in the hunting and capture of sentient beings, she also greatly enjoys simply hunting for its own sake, and to keep her skill sharp. However, those hunts are not always confined to animals and beasts..
General Health: At the prime of her life, extremely healthy and flexible.
Favorite Drink: She rarely drinks to excess, but does enjoy wines and liquors from many of the outer planes, and has a palate to recognize quality.
Weaknesses: Claustrophobic: does not like enclosed spaces, and could react unexpectedly to being confined against her will.

[*sstiletto]

Striated clouds of red and black whirled by overhead as the alu-fiend runs, arms and legs flying, her vestigial wings flapping uselessly in an attempt to coax just a bit more speed. Tangled tresses are matted to her head, the sweat of exertion running over her face and neck, her bare arms, every exposed bit of skin. Beings of her heritage can normally ignore heat.. but Phlegethos is murderously hot, reaching tendrils of flame pursuing her across the broken ground, and the white-hot glow of the Pit of Flame, although miles away, shines like a beacon in the far distance.

Most creatures would not choose to visit such a place. But most creatures are not being hunted by an implacable foe. It stands to reason to the alu-fiend that if she finds the heat, the flame, unbearable, it will at least have that same effect on her pursuer. Such are the thoughts that course through her mind, rambling introspection to pull her mind from the burning ache in her lungs, the rubbery feel of her legs after.. days? weeks? ..of running. But a faint hope burns bright in the recesses of her fiendish soul. A hope of escape, of being able to just stop.

Such hopes are proven futile as a sound, the almost-silent but feared echo of a strummed string, is heard from behind. And turning at bay, she finds herself with just enough time to see the black-armored figure posed on a rise nearly a hundred meters behind her. Just enough time to see the shining shaft coursing through the air in her direction. Just enough time to flinch before the weighted, blunt head of the arrow slams into her leg, to scream as a concussive burst of energy courses from it, snapping her tibia. Time enough to fall to the ground as if poleaxed, writhing in agony.

And the distant form walks closer, dark skin beneath hair and backswept horns of gold, another missile nocked on the bow. With the snarl of a cornered beast, the alu-fiend draws a shortsword from the scabbard at her waist, vowing to sell herself dearly. And yet the sound is heard again, another blunt arrowhead impacting her arm, the sound of shattering bones and a despairing scream accompanying the sound of the blade skittering away from her. The pain is horrific, but perhaps merciful, as darkness closes in on her sight even as the figure she so feared to see steps closer, a smile upon her almost delicate features, the bow now hung across her back and a weighted net dangling from her hand.

Darkness.

Ysbethael tu Loth grinned as the Shator counted out the coins, tucking them into her purse. Another long hunt, yet another quarry returned. Carceri is always good for a high payout, she thought to herself as her eyes flicked past the hulking, shaggy figure. Beyond could be seen the thrashing figure of the Alu-fiend, struggling vainly against two faratsu who ignored her frantic heavings as they bundled her into a narrow cage. A shrug at that; choose your enemies carefully was a tenet the Huntress had lived for since she was old enough to have enemies. After all, beings who chose poorly tended to live brutal lives cut short in horrible ways. Or worse, live long lives in those enemies' clutches.

"So, Huntress," came the grating voice of her most recent employer. "Will you not reconsider staying on Colothys? It would be most lucrative."

She shook her head, tapping the bow. "Perhaps someday, Xanathotos. But there are still many places I've yet to see, and quarry to test myself against. And I've promised myself to make the circuit of the Outlands, sample the Gate Towns. But don't worry." A wide smile creased her face, the expression making her seem more the young woman and less the tracker gaining reknown among the lower planes. "If you want to keep draining your coffers, you know where to find me."

The shator's gravelly chuckle sounded as behind him, the two tarry gehreleth manhandled the alu-fiend's cage over a stone well, slowly lowering it into a narrow tube sunk into the earth to the sound of protesting cries. "I'll remember that if any more special situations come up, Huntress. Are you certain you don't wish to stay for the fun part?" His clawed hand gestured to a glass tank to the side, within which could be seen a pair of the dreaded drill-worms: creatures notorious for their method of reproduction involving a living host, a dark place, and several centuries for their larvae to grow to adulthood.

The Huntress shook her head again, summoning up what tactfulness she had. "I care only about the chase, Xan'os, not what happens after. You go on and enjoy yourself." As she walked towards the gateway that would remove her from the Tarterian Depths, she hid a sigh of relief and a slight shudder. Yes, who one's enemies were definitely made a marked difference.

[*sstiletto]

Within the iron walls of the city of Rigus, Outland Gate Town of Acheron, beings prepare for war.

Of course, there is always war. The people of the city against the tribes of Orc-kin and goblinoids, both in the Outlands in an Acheron itself. Baatezu recruiters, looking for new blood to throw into their endless war agains the Abyss. Mercenary companies, calling the city home between jaunts across the planes, battling for coin. And of course the odd planewalker who comes to spend time here; the feel of the city seems to rub off once much time is spent within it.

One such being, a planetouched woman with dusky skin, golden hair and horns, and wearing laquered black armor of leather and fine chain, sits in a chair within the common room of the iron-walled fortress that the Toll of Doom, the leading mercenary company of the city, calls its "Chapterhouse", her boots propped on the table before her. One hand cradles a glass of wine from one of the so-called "lost" worlds, its light blue color sparkling in the lanternlight, while the other holds a thin cigarillo, its smoke smelling faintly of cloves and pepper.

"You know I'm not going to sign up to fight in random wars, Nagaro." Ysbethael's voice is almost a purr as she speaks to the woman sitting across the table from her, a muscular woman clad in the undertunic commonly worn beneath platemail. Attractive enough in an exotic way, but the bulk of muscle in her body and the steely glint of her slightly slanted eyes makes it obvious that this woman is no mere grunt, but something much more: General Nagaro, leader of the Toll of Doom, and commander of over thirty thousand troops respected (and feared) thoughout the planes. Ysbeth takes a long drag from the twisted cheroot in her hand before continuing, "You know I work best when I don't have someone trying to make decisions for me."

"The only officer you'd have to take orders from would be me, Huntress," replies the fallen paladin best-known for slaying several powerful devas in single combat. "That wouldn't be so bad, would it?"

Ysbeth snorts loudly. "And the first time I told you I wasn't interested in taking down your chosen target? I think I'd much prefer to have you as a friend, rather than thinking of you as the person who stuck me in the stockade. No, I think I'll continue to work with you on a per-job basis, Nags."

"There is something to be said for having brothers and sisters willing to watch your back, girl. One of these days this loner act is going to turn on you." Nagaro takes a long pull of her own drink, a foaming tankard of ale, before continuing. "Dark on the street is, there's a Cambion been asking around about you. And from the sound of things, he's not the type who'd be looking to hire you."

With a soft laugh, Ysbeth rolls her eyes. "I'm not the hardest woman in the multiverse to find, lass. And you never know who might have a pouch of gold and someone who needs hunting. He wants to find me, he'll find me. Your pigeons get a name for this fellow?"

Nagaro nods once, briskly. "Baalaphor Kurullin."

Eyes narrowing, the planetouched girl lets out a soft grunt. "Alright then. He's not looking to hire me. Although I'm the wrong person for him to go looking for if he wants his sister back. She's in the gehreleths' hands now."

"Ahh. One of those. Well, you're more than welcome to stay here in the Chapterhouse, dear. All you need to do is sign a little piece of paper and say a few words." The fallen paladin's grin is part teasing, part avarice.

Bright laughter rolls out of Ysbeth as she throws her head back. "Nice try, Nags. But I'm moving on tomorrow towards Automata, and it seems ser Kurullin will have to be as disappointed as you. Don't think the offer isn't appreciated, but I don't think that would work out for either of us as well as you like."

"You can't blame me for trying," chuckles the general. "But enough of such topics. If you're mustering out tomorrow, then I'm going to resort to Plan B: getting you drunker than a mace-struck slaad." With a wave of her arm, she signals the bartender to bring another round or six.

"You can try," the tiefling responds with a wicked grin of her own.

[*sstiletto]

They say what makes the Outlands such an interesting place is that you can find almost any type of environment within them, often standing in near juxtaposition that could never exist in the "natural" environment of the Primes. Snow-capped tors rise from bleak deserts, while great salty lakes wash beaches mere yards from verdant rainforests. This is what happens when every two-bit demipower who wants to be important carves out his own little "domain", most of which only stay in control for the week or two before said demipower meets a grisly end.

Of course, there's little to be obviously recognized as such in the barren flatlands between the Gate Towns of Rigus and Automata. Dry, rocky earth split by numerous deep clefts, steam and less pleasant gases rising from an unknown source deep below. The plain stretches hundreds of bleak miles, and most travellers are more than willing to take a longer route that bypasses these wastes. Of course, sometimes there isn't much choice.

The string pulls to the Huntress' ear for a moment, a brief interval of time as her mind calculates distance and wind, before it snaps loudly against her bracer, the arrow crackling with kinetic energy as it slams into the shoulder a Vrock twenty paces distant, knocking the tanar'ri from the air and sending it plummeting into a cravasse with a howling roar. But even before the missile strikes, Ysbethael has turned and sprints across the landscape, her feet sure and balance even despite the weariness bound to come from almost a day of this. More howls sound from behind, still a half-dozen minor demons stalking her trail despite an equal number lying lifeless and festooned with arrows upon the miles before. With a prodigious leap, she springs over a smoking gap, barely clearing it but turning immediately upon landing to send streaking shafts into the throats of several leaping Bar-Lgura attempting to follow her trajectory, causing them to slam against the rim almost at her feet.

Perhaps one is fresher than given credit for. Perhaps it is simply a stubborn refusal to die easily. But regardless, a clawed hand manages to fling out, raking across her calf and cutting through the leather boot to the flesh beneath before its owner slides out of sight. Although the Huntress does not cry out, it is now a limping figure that continues its flight as a soft buzzing fills the air, a trio of winged Chasme moving to flank her. And now fleeing is no longer an option, quick spins upon her uninjured leg to target them one at a time, cursing as it takes a pair of arrows to down each. And by then it's too late.

A faint whistling sound is heard, and even as she spins towards it with an arrow knocked, the metallic rope seeming to almost float through the air towards her until its end touches... and with the speed of a striking snake it suddenly begins to coil and twist. Reflexes honed by years of stalking and hunting spring to life, but physical prowess is no match for magic in this case, the rope of entanglement making quick work of wrapping the woman up in brassy coils and leaving her cursing and immoble on the ground... until a dark silhouette falls over her form.

A dark figure looms above her, features made indistinct by backlightling, only the pair of large side-sweeping horns upon its forehead, much like a muskox, giving
it a most distinct and clearly demonic appearance. "Where is my sister, you baatezu-loving mercenary? I know they paid you well, and I need to know who is next to die." A faint metallic snicker, and the shadow of a wickedly curved longknife stripes her face with a dark-upon-dark bar.

"You were a fool two years ago, Baalaphor, and you remain one today. My contract on her had nothing to do with the Blood War." Whether her words are bluster or confidence is uncertain, but disdain drips from her tone.

"Three days... three days after I take command of an abyssal legion, and she goes missing, and I hear that it's you who took her? I've followed your career since we took leave of each other, Huntress."

Her head shakes slowly. "You're giving far too much credit to your sister and her worth, Baal. I don't think there's a baatezu that would give me five gold for her. No, the stupid girl went and stole from the Gehreleths. If it wasn't me, it would have been someone else, and she'd still be in their drill-worm pits. Give her up as lost. Your legion may be enough to handle me, but they'd not make it twenty steps in Carceri."

Red eyes flare within the shadowed face, and an animalistic snarl sounds. "It doesn't matter, Huntress. You put her there. And I don't care how many troops it takes, she is not staying there. But first... I have to deal with you."

Her lips pull back from her teeth in a silent snarl even as the cambion bends down, the knife dull as it reaches first towards her cheek, then her eye. "Only because you had use to me once, I'm not going to kill you." The bloodsteel blade's flat side presses against her lips. "I think I'll just leave it to chance." With a sudden movement, the knife flicks to her ear, sharp pain lancing through it as a notch is cut from it. And again, and again, her blood sizzling softly as it drips from the cuts onto the hot ground.

After the fifth notch is cut, the cambion rises and turns from her, speaking softly. "The rope should let you go in about five hours. Assuming, of course, that nothing finds you before then. Good luck, Huntress... and don't ever let me hear your name in my matters again." With a softly chanted word, he activates a ring on his finger and vanishes with a sudden pop.

Helpless on the rocky ground, Ysbethael begins to growl in the sudden bleak silence. It would sound fierce but for the glazed panic that slowly forms in her eyes. It's going to be a long five hours...

[*sstiletto]

One of the distinctive things about Sigil, Huntress considered, is the shadows. Surrounding the bustle of the bazaar, almost limitless architectural styles could be seen, ranging from ramshackle lean-tos in alleyways to vast spired palaces; onion-domed edifaces that would surely be temples anywhere else loomed over square, military-inspired boxes, while the classical columns at the front of the Foul Olde Spirit contrasted most interestingly with the slipshod board-and nail construction of many of the vendors' stalls. And everywhere, curving spikes, oddly shaped turrets that pulled the eye in strange directions, and ornamental gargoyles (although if pressed, she'd guess that at least a tenth of them were actual living gargoyles, and probably just as many had been living creatures caught by magery). All in all, it meant that there would almost never be a stright roofline against the sky, while the directionless soot-tinged light of even the brightest day would cause chaotic crossings of shadows upon the pavement. More than a few Xaosmen made a living seeing portents in these bizarre patterns, while other, more sane cagers made games of seeing shapes within them, much as Primes might envision fantastical beasts in the forms taken by clouds.

Of course, such distinctions were never an issue at Khazeet's, where the flaming proprietor acted as a small local sun, ensuring by his very existence that all shadows cast within his small outdoor tavern were cast out from the center. Ysbeth chuckled at this consideration, setting down the writing quill to sip from the goblet at her elbow, her smile broadening with appreciation for the cloud giant wine, its milky color belying its sharp, fruity taste. A moment of satisfaction, before the quill was taken up once more, and actual writing would take place.

Six weeks in the Cage now. Well-spent, yes, although I do fear that time away from the frontlines may dilute the reputation my name holds. Still, it would not do to walk the Outlands alone at this time, even if the coin would seem worth the risk. Dangers still lurk in wait, and most likely only time will lessen them. Let us hope that memories of grievance are shorter than memories of battles turned, foes slain, and bounties taken.

Still, this City of Doors is as good a place as many to bide my time. The many portals allow me to leave its confines on a regular basis to at least keep my skills sharp, while the people... well, it seems odd to have friendships that last longer than few nights, or to see the same faces each day. I feared it would seem like Hopeless all over again, but fortunately Sigil has little in common with that drab place. It must be the fiendbloods.

Maelfina. Sensual and playful, and brave enough to stand out even in the harshest of blood war battlefields. But there is a darkness within her much greater than mine, and I often wonder if I would prefer to draw it out, or leave it contained.

Marx. At first glance, a bit of a fop and self-styled ladies' man. But his darkness is considerably closer to the surface; I would much rather deal with his insistent poking and the surreptitious glances at my rear than have him as an enemy.

"Siren". Another study in darkness. Assuming her to be in any way like the elf she resembles would be foolish; the dark blood within her may not be as obvious as in others, myself notwithstanding, but it is definitely there.

Mir. This one tries to put forth a hard, dangerous front, but a kind soul is evident. But not one of naivete, no. Woe to the one who thinks her ripe for corruption.

Saiph. I can't quite figure her out... sweet and charming, but there's something in her eyes, her laugh, that hints at something far more dangerous there.

So far, I've stood to the side as adventure has found those, and others. Another thing it seems there's no shortage of in Sigil. It's uncertain who I might run into, what situations I might find myself, in places such as Azzagrat or the Astral. For the time being, I've been content enough hearing their stories afterwards, and contenting myself with quick jaunts to the Infinite Plain or Minauros.

But perhaps I've waited long enough. We shall see.

Rolled up, the scroll case slides easily into the empty quiver at her hip, vanishing into the extradimensional space within. Huntress' head tilts back, draining the last of her gobet before she rises. A quick series of adjustments to the belt at her waist, the bow sheathed on her back, and the choker buckled around her throat, then she strides into the crowd of the bazaar, quickly fading into the press as if she'd never been.