|Dragoste Semnal Luminos|
"There is nothing to be done for it. You are a cur; simple as that. Now step out of my path."
|Hair:||the gleaming, shining colour of deep flame|
|Eyes:||pale, luminescent smoke grey|
|Physique:||slenderly formed with long limbs and the curves of a bud vase|
|Weapon(s):||Her razor-sharp tongue|
|Item(s):||An intricate pendant of dark gold rests against her throat, bearing a garnet that seems to hold licking flames. Her right wrist displays a bracelet of dark, burnished copper with the name "Rage" inscribed in vivid emerald green on it.|
|Relationship(s):||Rage- pet; Vladostil Luminos Intunericul- betrothed; Galarena Jaeral- ...who knows?|
|Slave(s):||She dislikes "slaves."|
|Origins:||the Abyss, 4th Level|
|Languages:||Abyssal, Common, Infernal|
Song: "Move Your Body" ~My Darkest Days
The Baatezu PrintesaEdit
Born to Duke Haures, the "Dreaming Duke" of the Abyss when he took the form of a bezekira for amusement, and a brachina, Dragoste was given the same off-handed consideration that all off her rarely seen siblings recieved. With thirty-six legions under his command, it was simple enough for Haures to toss a few servants into his palace and go about his time without a care in the Abyss.
Raised to unimaginable luxury, Dragoste quickly became used to having her every word obeyed as if it was an official command from the Duke himself. Not, of course, that she earned her father's regard in any particular manner, but Dragoste herself had the cool, calculating arrogance that goes far in elevating a devil above the rabble. Arcane arts were more of a hobby than a course of study, but she did find that organizing and arranging her father's collection of magical texts was an amusing pasttime. Earning the position of condicar (archivist) was only what she expected, and the printesa strolled through the Abyss with the air of one who received exactly what she wanted, when she wanted it.
Although captured demons were tossed through the palace nigh-well daily, and her siblings certainly availed themselves of the "toys" for their own pleasure, it was a fellow devil that Dragoste turned to for carnal indulgence. "Vladimir" was the nickname she whimsically gave him in their long-running courtship/antagonism, much to his irritation. (He preferred his proper name of Vladostil Luminos Intunericul.) Theirs was a constant battle in the hallways, the field where he commanded several of her father's legions, the bedchamber. Amused by each other, and the fact that one would never bow to the other, it was a diversion that lasted innumerable years. Had Dragoste ever thought to love, perhaps it would have been Vladostil that her love would have alighted upon. For his part, the devil pursued her often and with great enjoyment.
Discovering a copy of the Book of Vile Darkness was simply another amusement on her way, and when her mother was slaughtered by a celestial who titled itself "Luminous Throne of Eight Stars," Dragoste used what she learned from the book's blood-spattered pages to banish the celestial from the Abyss. A sniff of disgust at her mother being so weak, and the printesa continued on her merry way until realizing that she was, indeed, very bored. With no particular martial skill, nor an innate understanding of the arcane that could have made her more of a soldier in her father's legions, Dragoste decided that the planes had to hold more interest than this.
While Vladostil thought the idea of leaving ridiculous- after all, she was leaving him as well as her boredom, and just who did she think she was, claming to be bored when he was about?- pride ensured that the printesa met only the mildest of resistance to her departure. Devils, after all, do not beg, and they both knew that forbidding her to go would only result in a fight that would've done no good at all.
Wandering the OutlandsEdit
Dragoste learned quickly that without her father's legions of devils to call upon to enforce her will, she was considered simply another mouthy, arrogant infernal spawn. This, naturally, was intolerable, and the nigh-constant encounters with tempermental demons insistant on continuing the Blood War, as well as fiesty celestials who sought to "purge the realm" of her became extremely tiresome. It was more entertaining, to be sure, than languishing in her father's palace, but still... Very annoying.
A chance conversation she interrupted between two celestials informed her of a realm called Styss which was overseen by Mephistopheles. Amused by the idea of a demi-plane held by one of the leading devils, Dragoste slaughtered the celestials and set out to find this Isle. Perhaps an introduction could be made, and she would find a more comfortable- and entertaining- role in his court. The simplest way to find the demi-plane seemed to be the City of Doors, and she gathered up her skirts and flitted off to Sigil.
The City of DoorsEdit
Once in the vast city of Sigil- and careful to keep a low profile lest she come to the attention of the Lady of Pain- Dragoste found it endlessly diverting to watch the coming and going. However, she was treated as just another traveller. This was unacceptable. With a devil's ego, the baatezu needed admiration, attention and devotion. Being merely a face in the midst of a crowd was not her cup of tea.
Meeting Jerif Ague in the Clerk's Ward was a boon from the Abyss. A half-orc cleric of Gruumsh, Jerif was mindlessly bloodthirsty and as evil as she could have hoped for. It was simple enough to bring him to heel with a few well-chosen words, a light flirtation and the promise of killings to come. It was a delightful partnership, as Jerif- while surprisingly intelligent- was in awe of this delicate devil and kept her supplied with the compliments and adoration she had become used to.
A Fit of TemperEdit
After several decades of indulging Jerif's bloodlust in the Beastlands and the Grey Waste, Dragoste took a jaunt back to the Abyss. Retrieving the belongings she'd carelessly left behind, as well as flaunting her success outside of the Abyss to a half-sister, she learned of Vladostil's latest little game- declaring himself her betrothed and earning her father's approval of the match. Amused by the attempt to lure her back to residence, Dragoste left him with a vague agreement to the idea and then the baatezu returned to Sigil where she expected to find her faithful Jerif awaiting her.
What she did find was his rotting corpse, victim of a mugging, and a few inquiries told her that Jerif's soul had already been neatly claimed by Gruumsh. Vexation was the most delicate word one could find to describe her reaction to having her plaything taken. With the ferocity of a devil denied, she spent a decade hunting orcs and half-orcs, slaughtering them for no other reason than to see them dead. Her reasoning was simple: if Gruumsh wanted his followers so badly, she would send them to him.
After her temper finally settled, a few thousand orcs later, she finally recalled that she'd intended to visit the Isle of Styss. It was not difficult to find a portal, and with her nose planted firmly in the air, Dragoste stepped onto the Isle of Styss for the first time.
On the IsleEdit
Arriving on Styss, the devil found that the cosmopolitan nature of the isle was both a pro and a con. The pro, of course, was that she could move amongst celestials and paladins without having to dodge a sword. The con, however, truly irked her as she was neither special nor attributed any elevated position simply through being her father's daughter. For one who had spent her entire existance being lauded, adored and obeyed, this was a rasp on her pride that absolutely could not be endured.
Uppermost in her mind was the desire to have another Jerif. The half-orc's protection and adulation had been a perfect replacement for her father's staff, and after noting the high probability of being physically harmed, the devil began subtly looking about for a new pet. Observing and discarding a number of candidates, she was musing the problem over when a knight named Dalphon approached her. The knight's courtly ways were a welcome change of pace from the blundering attempts at seduction she had been subject to, and the devil allowed herself to be lured into a more intimate setting.
Amusing was how swiftly the knight declared himself wholly in love with her, and the use of a specially brewed restoration potion gave the knight her refreshed maidenhead. Agreeing readily to all that he said, Dragoste planned for the day when he would offer his soul and she could claim him as a pet. Until then, it worked to let him consider himself her beloved, and she did nothing to break that illusion.
Until she met Rage.
A chance encounter with the barbarian during a training exercise- translated from Dragoste-speak: a chance to watch some slaughter- led to amusing commentary. On the devil's part. Rage, being a to-the-point barbarian, made comments that Dalphon did not find amusing in the slightest, and although he claimed to trust the deviless, he hesistated before leaving them alone together.
With good reason. Seeing in Rage everything she had had in Jerif- not to mention the possibility of an excellent bedmate- the devil wasted no time in luring him into a compromising position and then manipulating every art of love learned from her mother to leave the barbarian nearly mindless. With such a first impression, it was no surprise that Rage sought her out not long after.
Keeping Dalphon quietly oblivious while she lured Rage into agreeing to become her pet was a simple matter of having the two men separated by time and space. After Rage accepted the position of 'pet'- symbolized by a lock of Dragoste's hair transmuted into a collar bearing her name about his neck- it was Dalphon's misfortune to find his "lady" with her pet in tow. Disillusioned and heartbroken, the knight left.
Rage himself had to undergo a period of adjustment to the idea of being a pet. With a barbarian's typical lack of foresight, he broke the collar and fumed at the deviless about how he was viewed by others. A collar, to the isle at large, meant "slave" and little more. His anger was particularly hot due to being turned down by a woman who claimed she had no interest in "owned" men. With a devil's clever insight, Dragoste let him fume and huff, and then calmly explained what being a "pet" meant. The choice, she said, was entirely his.
Not only did Rage accept the status of pet, but gave the deviless his soul. Perhaps fortunately for him, Dragoste despises mindless slaves, and prefers the challenge of a will to pit her own against. He need only love her, fear her, obey her and his life is his own beyond that.
Of course, not everyone was so easily charmed by the baatezu's glib tongue and smoky eyes. A woman with a pride perhaps stronger than Dragoste's found something amusing in the devil after a rather... delicate fencing of courtly insults in Dragoste's preferred bar, the Serpentine. Galarena Jaeral was not only a powerful sorceress herself, but also a sadist with a taste for breaking strong-willed women. In the haughty baatezu, she saw... something worth her time and attention.
A draught of a potent aphrodisiac led to one heated encounter, and the baatezu's physical fragility another which Rage cut short. While Dragoste's tastes in sensuality run parallel to the masked woman's own, her pride refused to submit on the level that Galarena desired. Strange, perhaps, that the vicious sorceress provided an offer: learn from me or be broken by me.
While the baatezu printesa does not, of course, believe that anyone could break her, obsession and pursuit on any level are an unspoken compliment that her narcissistic nature responded to. For now, she and the red-garbed woman have reached an understanding and Dragoste has to conceal a smug smile at having turned an enemy into another potential admirer.
A new contender for the devil's attention spoke to her in the Serpentine, and the more they conversed, the more intrigued Dragoste became. A man who introduced himself as Jack, with whimsically coloured hair, displayed more intelligence than the baatezu had seen from anyone on the isle, and his compliments ensured the devil looked approvingly on him. With his knack for observing and drawing conclusions from what he saw, as well as clever hands for massage, Jack lured her into permitting more intimate interactions. Cementing himself in Dragoste's mind with creative spellcasting and a will that held out against nearly every trick she had in her repertoire, Jack may have inadvertently intertwined himself with a devil who has expansive plans and all the time in the world to see them come to fruition.
With the force of her devilish blood, Dragoste has perfected the art of charm. When she is given her way in all things, the baatezu is accomodating (so long as it doesn't unsettle her desires) and gracious, speaking with a velvety tone that many have commented on as being irresistable. As long as her desires are met promptly, the printesa is the epitome of noble grace and self-control, displaying an innate knowledge of etiquette and a knack for speaking compliments that sound as truthful as if spoken by an angel.
If she is ignored, denied or insulted, the baatezu becomes all that one fears when hearing the word 'nobility.' Her arrogance comes to the fore, and her razor-sharp tongue finds every flaw, every fault and every sin to slice open, leaving those who have crossed her spilling quarts of metaphorical blood. Although she despises physical combat, Dragoste is not above administering a well-placed slap if she feels it is deserved. The trick is learning what will avoid receiving the strike of that soft hand.
When lavished with compliments, attention and treated with the respect that a printesa so obviously deserves, she is everyone's friend, responding warmly to flirtation, quick to laughter and overwhelmingly charming. The moment that she senses she is not receiving her due, however, brings her temper to the fore, and then the devil in her becomes painfully apparent.
Beautiful? Naturally. What full-blooded, self-respecting devil would deign to walk about appearing as less than perfection? Dragoste, for one.
Perfection is not a word to describe her, nor is "delicate," "frail," "willowy," or any of the other myriad of adjectives that could be applied to so many elves and other flitting things. No, the word that suits the baatezu is noble.
Tall and statuesque, with the full curves of a proper woman- exaggerated slightly by her full breasts and hips being compressed and enhanced with neatly laced corsets- the baatezu printesa carries herself with an air of cool competence. She does not flutter nor preen, but moves with grave deliberation. A gesture has meaning, a look has intent. She does nothing frivolously.
Beneath these lush curves is soft muscle, as Dragoste is not a fighter, nor is she one for great physical exertion. With the pampered body of a spoiled printesa, her unmarked skin, pristine nails and soft surfaces are testament to the fact that she has had to do nothing for herself unless she chose to. Hair the colour of kicking flames falls in a heavy curtain to her hips, swaying with her small, precise steps. A pair of pointed horns curve up from her smooth brow, often with a few locks of her hair brushing loosely over them.
The baatezu's face is pristinely featured- with high cheekbones, a slender nose and long, narrow eyes, she is capable of an expression of profound arrogance. Her eyes are the colour of smoke, but occasionally glow with the intense shade of a smouldering coal. She rarely smiles, and when she does, it is a calm, detached expression. Very few have seen a full, true smile from her.
Beyond her horns, the only indication she shows of her devilish heritage is the spade-tipped tail that sways gently as she walks. The length of it gleams like satin, and the tip holds the soft matte shade of fine suede. Rarely will she permit someone to touch it, and it is often looped over her arm or draped about her hips to avoid contact with others.
Of course, the long, slender legs concealed by heavy skirts and the dainty feet are a glamour that she holds to keep from gaining too many curious looks. Without her glamour, she looks the part of a proper baatezu. Digigrade legs, coated in gleaming, flame-coloured fur end in cloven hooves, and clothing is a secondary thought. If she steps out of her glamour, it is with purpose, and then she makes no effort to conceal her lush curves. With the scent of roses overlaying the smell of applewood smoke, she appeals to all senses, but rarely permits anyone to indulge in exploring her effect on them.
Jewels? Of course. What printesa would not adorn herself with gems and precious metals to reflect her obvious worth. Here, Dragoste shows surprising restraint. The only jewels that she wears are a necklace and a bracelet. The black steel band about her throat holds an intricately crafted gold pendant. What appears to be a ruby is inset in the pendant. A closer look would not be permitted by many, but to those who are fortunate enough to be allowed to lean in, the gem is a dome of polished crystal containing a minute coal. Licking flames dance against the crystal, flaring with the occasional brilliant light.
The second adornment is a bracelet of dark, burnished copper. The inch wide band of metal encircles her right wrist, and gleams as though reflecting flames from its' highly polished surface. The only change to this shining surface is the name "Rage" which gleams a vivid emerald, incised into the metal in flowing script. Although it has a relatively low-key appearance, the bracelet radiates more arcane energy than the pendant which rests against her breast. Neither bracelet nor necklace have the ability to be removed- she dislikes having to chase down thieves.