Gustabo

Class and Race

Teifling Sorcerer

Background

Progress. That was the word that Gustabo thought of when we woke and the last thought before he slept. It was his mantra. Any kind of change would be an improvement over his current life. Growing up hungry in the slums was pretty much the bottom. Being a teifling in a human city made it worse. But no matter how hard his parents worked or how long Gustabo studied his life wouldn’t, couldn’t change.

Then in his teenage years his ability to channel magic manifested. Yes! Now he and his family would have some progress. There was no such thing as a poor sorcerer, right? His father disagreed. “Boy, this changes nothing. So you got powers now. There’s no getting out of the slums.” Gustabo just couldn’t understand. All the hopes and dreams in his father must have withered and died long ago. Desperate to change something, he went to the fixer in the neighborhood. The jobs he took were small at first. Using mage hand to place forged documents in the tax collector’s office through an open window. Tripping a courier so his satchel could be “filtered”. Gustabo used some of his earnings to bring food home, but he also hid some extra gold under the floor boards of his room. But soon the fixer was assigning him jobs that didn’t feel right. Using fire bolt to start a fire in a rival’s warehouse or using chill touch to make local officials too sick to go to work.

Then one day the fixer told him his next job was an assassination for the Syndicate. The money was better… a LOT better. But it was a line Gustabo just couldn’t cross. He turned down the job. That night he tossed and turned in his sleep. How would he and his family every get out of the slums if he wasn’t willing to use his power to make real money? He needed to clear his head. He crept out of the shack he called home and walked to the waterfront to collect his thoughts. Working for the fixer wasn’t the right thing to do. He shouldn’t be using his power to perform crimes but to correct them. Gustabo would find another way to make money and help his family. With that guilt off of his conscious his footsteps felt lighter as the sun rose and he returned home.

That is, until he turned onto his street and saw the smoke. By the time he ran to his shack it was too late; it was engulfed in flames. In the dirt in front of the door he saw the sign of the Syndicate scratched in the dirt. They must have thought he was a loose end in their assassination plan. Now his home, his parents, everything he knew was gone. And it was all his fault.

Gustabo turned and wiped the tears from his eyes as turned and began to wander through the slums. One word kept repeating in his head. It was his new mantra: Redemption.

Languages

Common, Draconic, Infernal