A Halfbreed Cultist (Author: Speng)

You regard your short, golden brown hair, curling horns, piercing red eyes, and pointed fangs as you run your hand over your neatly trimmed goatee. Ideas have begun to slowly surface from the fog, crystallizing into thoughts-- the first, appropriately sardonic one of these is that if it could be said that there was one upside to being slaughtered repeatedly, it was that you never had to shave.

You're a Grimbol, you seem to recall; the unlikely offspring of faerie- and demon-kind. Your body resembles that of a satyr, but smaller (you'd guess you stand a bit under five feet tall), with gossamer wings, your legs put on the right way round, less body hair and drunkenness, and way more potential for power and sex appeal. At least, that's what you'd like to think-- The adventurers of your kind you had the opportunity to be slain by certainly seemed to think so, anyway, before Arkus' population fell off a cliff shortly after your race became playable, and every single one of them became some kind of tragic hero seeking to avenge the sins of your race and redeem them in the eyes of the humans. You groan, massaging your temple as plenty of less-than-pleasant memories come flooding back to you. Fuck them all.

See, the thing is, unfortunately for you, you're certain that you're bar none the weakest member of your kin in the whole world-- You're ostensibly a member of a cult, and your neck of this fetid swamp has a quest for killing a certain number of you, with each cultist being of a different race. They don't have to kill all of you, of course, and your cave is fairly isolated, but your relative novelty is enough to entice some of them to hunt you down... which would be fine, since it's a low-level area, and you could, in theory, pick off the odd newbie. Trouble is, with the decline of the playerbase, and the fact that your area is relatively new, most of the people you see are level 80-odds armored like fortress walls who blitz through to polish off their quest log achievements, so most of them smite you down before you can so much as blink.

...Hell, you don't even know what the cult is, or properly what it is you're supposed be worshiping; throughout your short lives, you've prayed to every god and quasi-divine being you've ever heard of, including ones you're sure adventurers have just made up, and none of them have answered you. In short: Fuck all the gods, fuck the cult, fuck adventurers, and fuck this swamp. You've decided, and reaffirm to yourself now, that the only thing you can rely on is your innate magic, wit, and charm. With a contemptuous gesture, you open your Character Sheet to appraise the few tools you have available to you.

Level 5 Grimbol Cultist
Fey, Demonic, Grimbol, Explicit
Experience to level up – 500
Attributes
| Strength 17 | Dexterity 24 | Endurance 17 |
| Charisma 34 | Manipulation 34 | Appearance 34 |
| Perception 20+0 | Intelligence 28 | Wits 28 |
Skills
Anatomy 15
Presence 20
Lore 25
Occult 30
Stealth 20
Dodge 20
Crafting (Imbuing) 5
Crafting (Artisanry) 5
Feats
Silver Tongue - Increases the chances of positive conversation checks due to persuasion or intimidation based on Charisma.
Supernatural - You take reduced damage from magic and most weapons, but double damage from weapons with the [Cold Iron] or [Silvered] properties.
Levitate - You can hover up to [Level] feet off the ground, moving at your normal movement speed. As long as you aren't Stunned, Paralyzed, or , you take no falling damage.
Secrets of the Ages – gain a constant, passive buff to your Perception based on the time since your last .
Spells:

• Slow: Sap the vigor from the target's muscles; they move and act [Occult]% slower for the next 7 seconds.
• Animate Dead (Expand): Raise a corpse to fight for you as an Undead minion.

Well, there it is. This has become a bit of an... unfortunate habit of yours, reminding yourself how weak you are and stewing in your own resentment for a while after every time you die. With your feeble physique, you can't really wear armor or wield anything heavier than your sacrificial dagger, which makes it a pain in the ass to try to kill anything that you'd want to resurrect as a minion (let's be honest; a meat shield). You're sure your aptitude for stealth and charm matter somehow, but you've never gotten the chance to really use them or your levitation much; you rarely get far from this damnable cave, and adventurers are completely impervious to reason. The Crafting skills are new to you, at least, but you strongly suspect they're just there to generate more random loot for adventurers.

You sigh, slicking back your hair with some of the trickling water. Hope dies last, you suppose, and with most everyone still downloading the new update, you ought to have a bit of a grace period to at least go out and enjoy the weather before the next time you suddenly get rent limb from limb by some demigod fashion disaster.