Little Bull Blue

You imagined that whenever someone mentioned minotaurs, they invoked images of hulking behemoths. Massive creatures that carried weapons, giant axes that could fell an oak in a single strike or mighty hammers that out weighed most mortal men. Rippling muscles that gleamed with sweat, flexing under a battlefield’s sun. Bellows of triumph as yet another army fell before their rage. They thought of titles like The Hammer of the Blackened Shoals, The Beast Beneath the Mountain.
They certainly didn’t imagine Alex the Runt. You were a joke. The gods surely made you so they had something to point and laugh at when business was slow. You were barely five feet tall, and that was only if you counted the tiny horns that grew from your brow. All your brothers, your father and his father before him, were giants, none of them less than eight feet tall. And they had proper horns, sharpened to better gore their victims. You considered yourself lucky if you pricked your fingers on yours. Your father had a huge sword, taller than a human male, that he swung about with one hand. You had a flail made from some strips of leather and a stone you fished out of the local river.
And the most insulting thing was how much you looked like a little girl. You were a minotaur, dammit. Instead of rippling muscles, you had soft, slender limbs. And a backside the satyrs said was cute. You were secretly a little flattered by that, but you still weren’t about to let them anywhere near it. If anyone was pitching it was you. Not that anyone would let you. The closest you got was jerking your little four inch pecker, another insult, while watching the fawn girls bathing. They always knew you were there of course, but they always told you they could get bigger from their boys. One of them actually said, “Look me up when you grow a few inches.” If you could grow from sheer willpower, you would be the biggest minotaur ever.
So while all the other minotaurs were bosses in some dungeon, or roving terrors, you were stuck in some low level forest. You sigh heavily as you hear footsteps approaching in the distance. You glumly looked at your stats, hoping by some miracle they had changed.
Level 1
Melee Attack: 8
Ranged Attack: 0
Abilities: None

There, a little blurb. Nothing changed, you were still sword bait. You sigh and give your little flail a practice twirl and swish your tail impatiently. The footsteps weren’t moving very fast. “Hurry up, so we can get this over with.”