An extrapolated study on the formation of Hell-Sold. Varied urges drive a being to hunt. Some hunt for nourishment, some hunt for entertainment, some hunt for the single reason their entire existence has been an unending chase: target to target, mark to mark.. meal to meal.. Stalkers of a caliber where the very heavens quake at the whispered word of mention, owe only so much to talents trained and learned from elders. The top of the food chain is blessed with a capability bred of instinct more than class room lecture. Significant training any can gifted with the bare bone skills, yet it takes time eternal to perfect the art of pursuit. Fractured femurs and shredded skin: these are the first memories Mephimon has of the years which seem to blur and blend together, every bone in his body shattered, growing back stronger..teaching a pain threshold that would cripple the will of most creatures. Body laid prone on a cold slab of stone, a chin whisker beyond his 12'th birthday finds the young boy amid cackling pit fiends whom take great delight in the ruination of still growing bone, laughing madly at the succulent snaps. A score of years this lesson continues, patience and tolerance the only diploma from this sadistic curriculum. An unimaginable time for humans. A blink for a brood spawn. Along with twelve others, Mephimon was sold to the Abyss by dark hearted parents too cheap work, and caring not to raise a bastard. Their sins transfered to sons as eternal servitude for the realm of the damned was the currency paid for Father's greed. Hunters for the Abyss, the sweet sense of grievous injustice powers the pupils to succeed. Every 999 years, thirteen more are shackled for shadow's use, a common name to brand them all: Hell-Sold. Eons pass as any shred of humanity fades in the unrelenting nether realm. Apprenticed to a bitter old fiend named Ullistoriayn, near two millennium old, at least that was said in hushed whispers between the students, the purpose of this elementary schooling was meant not to train but to eliminate. Remove the weak, the hesitant, the frail. Every decade, years of training were put on display in single round of combat, two students randomly selected for a contest where but one would return. One hundred and thirty years later, an epoch that saw the ultimate victor emerge from six individual rounds of contest, there remained but one: Mephimon. Lessons in hunting, fighting, the art of diplomacy, the art of disguise and guile, not all battles are won in a show of physical force, "Your mind is your sharpest weapon!"; a point beat over and over into his conscious. Two successive centuries of training layer atop the elementary foundation he struggled to survive, giving Mephimon a sharp knowledge of every strength and weakness his form holds. Mundane weapons can scratch and sting, causing little permanent damage while magical constructs are another case all together. His heritage affords some inbred immunities to the mystic, they are dulled courtesy of the amount of time spent stalking the world above. His ability to resist magic is slight, the effect is weak, and ultimately he holds little confidence in it. Indeed, the greatest lesson he was taught was to rely on his own cunning to preserve his hide. Able to transform into a shell of skin, finding in that manner it is much easier to approach your target, these shells are weak and easily undone. Able to conjure only very minor magical incantations, his true ability lay in combat, using every advantage he can. From a variety of multi-purpose powders he carries at his waist, he would not hesitate in the least to toss blinding power in the eyes of a down man, nor drug the drink of an intended target. Far less deadly during the daylight hours, powers wrought with holy influence appear effective, though not entirely destructive as they would a full blooded hell spawn. Now he works the upper world, the tale of his employment separation a yarn that would fill volumes. He works for a new master, a wicked overlord: wealth. Ruthless in business and battle he seeks to over flow his coffers and fill a void within. Some would whisper he's returned for family, but that is a tale for another day. Implements and Observations: (Note: The following should be considered hearsay and is neither verified nor endorsed by the historical society as completely factual. - Author, Diosynese - 102) "Nig" - Gifted from maeve, the weapon has seen its fair share of use in battle. The gleaming alloy is unknown but the blade confers a moderate magic resistance. Powerful incantations and mind effects have been rumored to effectively over-power this source of negation. "Cleave Cloak" - Woven from material that appears to devour light, the dark cloth twists and writhes around his form, dangled, uneven edges create the normal apparel of the hunter. Previous foes swear to have seen blades strike and bend, or break on that wicked apparel, but the evidence of damage stitched across the hunter's body is proof positive the clothing is far from impervious. The edge of the cloth is tipped with something referred to as 'razor ribbon', horrifically sharp and quite capable of severing flesh with ease. "Arcane Incantations" - The hunter appears to have few mystic abilities at close hand. Beyond a handful of minor gimmicks designed to confuse and disorient, the occult does not appear to be an area the Hell-Sold are prepared in. Artist's rendition of 'True Form' "True Form" - The initial education of Abyss Hunters is simply referred too as Subjugation. It's this period where the most grotesque of the transfigurations take place. The constant bone shattering and malevolent energies of the nether realm mutate the creature's natural body into one that borders on complete horror. A handful of witness have seem this primordial shape and depicted it as roughly 12-15 feet in height, with mottled skin and rending claws, the most utilized phrase in recalling the wicked image was simply monstrous. "Skin Sacks" - Guile a hallmark of the Stalker's training, it would be difficult to complete certain objectives in its native form. To adapt, the Hell-Sold have developed a method that allows them to camouflage among the normal populace. Able live in what we can only label a 'Skin Sack', the false body serves as the vessel for the Hunter to roam the realm undetected. Spending a good portion of their life in this form, they appear able to sleep, eat and die without an uncontrolled appearance of their inner self. It requires a dedicated portion of subconscious focus and the onslaught of violent rage, and/or methods of attack targeting the mind, have been known to shatter the subconscious area of control, incurring an ugly side effect. For all intents and purpose they appear as above average, large, bipedal humanoids; just with a significant temper.