Jiangshi

It looks like it's going to rain today. Then again, you muse as you stare upwards at the churning grey skies, it always looks like it's going to rain around these parts, but rarely ever seems to get around to actually doing so. A butterfly catches your eye as it flutters across your field of vision, but you only get a scant couple seconds to admire the intricate patterns on its glossy red wings before it vanishes from sight, chased off by the increasingly audible sounds of sloshing water and grumbling male voices from behind you and to your right.

"--fuck is even the point of these chores anyway, this gate guard's completely useless. If we dropped anything decent, I'd wager you the first thing that happens when we get back is a mace to the face and another round trip to the Void, too. Why not drop the pretense and just let me wallow in my misery?"

"N'gflryepthron protects." The other voice intones solemnly.

"Bloody does it now." The first grunts, as two cowled figured loom into vision over you. You don't recognize the younger, scowling face, but you've seen the elderly, greying [Black River Cultist] many times. You like him; he's nice, and he never complains, no matter how many times you have to go through this song and dance.

"Prithee, might'st thou help me stand?" You inquire politely. That's what they're here for, of course-- a couple of them check up on you every 15-20 minutes or so, provided there aren't any adventurers around-- but you pride yourself on your cordiality. The younger cultist rolls his eyes, but the elder smiles genteelly down at you. "Of course, child."

Within about a minute, they've hauled you back to your feet, and while you stretch your back to the extent that you're able, the elder dusts you off and the younger goes about wrenching your arms from their current upright position to their usual position outstretched in front of you with harsh cracking sounds that make both of them wince.

"So, who was it this time? The rogue that passed through a few minutes ago?" One of the things you like about the old cultist is he makes much needed small talk, but you huff indignantly at the question. You don't think you've ever actually died, as such, since you've heard that you're especially tough for your level (you think you'd remember that whole dying thing, anyway), but there are... other ways to circumvent you, as adventurers quickly found. You don't drop anything worthwhile, apparently, so most adventurers simply bypass you, whether by running around you, hitting you with some foul hex, or...

"T'was a foul, besotted scamp! He laugh'd as I warned him away from the bridge, and when I didst move to destroy him, he push'd me over with a staff and rifle'd through my pouch to the last penny!" The cultist shakes his head with a sad smile, while his younger counterpart rolls his eyes again. Being the sort of undead you are, your joints are kind of locked up, and you can really only move your neck, ankles, and hands to any significant degree (and your shoulders, back, and hips only barely), which means that all one really needs to do to defeat you is tip you over with a stick longer than your arm's reach, since you aren't capable of righting yourself.

The bastards.

"He didst also take... something else." You mutter. The cultists eye you inquisitively; if you had a pulse, you'd be blushing, but simply frowning and starting at the ground, it takes the old man a few moments to intuit your meaning, rubbing at his temples from beneath his hood. "Say no more." The younger one merely cocks an eyebrow as his co-worker heads back to the boat they arrived on, but when he returns, a piece of cloth in his fist, the cultist's eyes flick back and forth between the two of you, finally adding two and two together... and he bursts out laughing. "Who would even--"

"Mind the boat, acolyte." His superior snaps as he approaches you. His subordinate, hardly chastised, continues giggling at your expense as he returns to the bank of the swamp. "Were there ever a people deserving of N'gflryepthron's judgement, it is our youth." The old man laments, as he crouches down beside you and tilts you up over his lap. You can only mumble a 'thanks' as he loops the fresh panties over your ankles, and politely averts his gaze as he pulls them up your legs and under your skirt.

"There you are, child." He says as he rights you, standing and brushing off his robe, and you watch over his shoulder as he flicks open your status menu, as he usually does, to ensure there aren't any other problems.

• Name: Jiangshi
• Faction: Undead (Black River Cult)
• Race: Undead (Zombie)
• Level: 2
• HP: 50/50
• MP: 0/0
• Stamina: --/--
• Chi: 23/100
• Melee Attacks: Natural Weapons (Claw 2-6, Bite 8-10)
  
• Ranged Attacks: N/A
• Defense: 28
• Magic Resistance: 0
• Resistances:
• FIRE: -100%
• ICE : 25%
• HOLY: -100%
• HEAL: -200%
• DARK: 75%
• NEGA: 200%
• Traits:
• Undead: You take extra damage from HOLY and FIRE, and are harmed by healing spells, but are healed by NEGA and immune to level drain and Poison, Paralysis, Charm, Sleep, Bleed, and status effects.
• Jiangshi: You are a specially-animated zombie, giving you the following effects:
• Chill Touch: Whenever you hit a sentient flesh-and-blood target with a natural weapon, the target loses [Level] Stamina or Chi, whichever is higher, and you gain 2 Chi. As long as you're touching a sentient flesh-and-blood creature, it loses 1 Stamina or Chi every 2 seconds, whichever is higher, and you gain 1 Chi every 2 seconds.
• Ghoul: Eating raw flesh restores your Health.
• Chi Drain: You lose 1 point of Chi every 10 seconds. If you are below full Health, each point of Chi lost this way will restore [Level] Health (Chi lost from other Traits, abilities, spells, or status effects does not restore Health).
• Rigor Mortis (4/5): Your range of motion is extremely limited by the stiffness of . While your Chi is above 40, Rigor Mortis is reduced by 1 level; while it is above 80, it is reduced by 2 levels. Failing to resist an effect that would Paralyze you increases it by one level: as long as Rigor Mortis is at level 5, you are Paralyzed.
• Command Talisman: A charm affixed to your head is the locus of your animating . Unlike other Undead, you may be reprogrammed like a Construct: Command Talismans may be crafted by Necromancers, Scribes, and Golemancers, and your currently equipped Command Talisman determines your orders, Faction, and Affiliations. If you do not have a Command Charm equipped, your Stamina is automatically set to 0.

Naturally, you haven't the foggiest idea what any of that says-- you're completely illiterate-- but you've come to understand that all those numbers are kind of a mixed bag; you're rather tough, but weak as hell, supposedly a stat template for stronger, more interesting monsters, and an object lesson to new players on how to exploit weaknesses rather than fighting directly.

"May He Who Has An Entirely Unreasonable Number Of Appendages grant you your vengeance, child," the cultist says after he flicks the tab closed, and deposits your pay-- six copper coins-- into your belt pouch. You'd saved up so much before that damn stinking rogue robbed you! You thank the gentleman cultist again for his trouble; "N'gflryepthron protects." is his response, and he smiles and claps you on the shoulder before turning and heading back down to the bank to join his lackey.

With that, your allies are gone again, levering their boat back into the bog. Your post is a small porch and a gate leading to a modestly-sized wooden bridge, which in turn leads to the Black River Cult's branch temple; other than a couple potted plants on the porch, though, and a couple decorative hedges encircling and demarcating your encounter area, the area is rather gloomily drab, all greys, browns, and dead trees.

There are a few conveniently reflective puddles in the mud, though, one of which you stare into to while away the time: You're not especially imposing in stature, well below 5 feet tall, with icy blue skin; malign, dimly glowing red eyes; a rectangular paper seal covered in runes of blood and affixed to your forehead, denoting your state of undeath; and your indigo hair tied back in a voluminous braid that reaches down to your knees. A loose blue-and-gold patterned jacket covers both your barely-appreciable bust and the scar just below your left breast where the girl that once occupied this body was run through the heart and obliterated so that you could be created in her stead.

Jutting out at a 90-degree angle, your baggy-sleeved arms end in long, sharpened nails, and they, along with teeth filed into a cartoonish shark-toothed grin, comprise your natural armaments... if only you could ever catch anything with them. A wide sash with a coin-shaped buckle holds up your matching skirt and coin pouch, and black stockings and soft dress shoes fill out the ensemble.

If only you could command the sort of respect your snappy dress demands! You're a fearsome ghoulish gate guardian, not some cutesy lawn ornament to be brushed aside by literal nobodies! Okay, perhaps that's literally what you are. That younger [Black River Cultist] is right; you're an abject failure of a gate guardian, on account of literally never actually stopping a single person from reaching the gate, which means that it is directly your fault that they keep prancing through, slaughtering everybody in the temple, and ransacking the place, over and over again.

You grit your teeth-- a tear would have welled up in your eye, were it capable of doing so. You're damn sick and tired of being bullied around by newbie adventurers! You wish you could actually do your job, even if only to protect the smile of your one worldly friend! You have to at least repel one person from the thing you're actually supposed to be guarding!

A blue glow from overhead steals your attention: Another hero's warping in for the quest. Your mushy brain kicks into overdrive; how the hell are you actually going to stop an adventurer from just blowing past you?