My G.O.D., how do I love thee? Let me count the ways...

***Warning: This is slightly R-rated. If you’re a sensitive creature, feck off and find another blog***

I am Brenys Silverkin, a lowly level three Wood Elf of the forests of Sharn. I do not possess fantastic magic at this time, nor do I frighten away my enemies with my fair countenance. My insignificant wisdom score of 18 does not permit me to understand the many wonders of my world, such as my G.O.D. and his methods.

G.O.D. is always right. He has the stats. He tracks the monsters. He wants us all to be infallible Paladins capable of hurling magnificent spells that do critical damage just by ruffling an enemy’s hair. He does not feel the pang of loss when significant members of a band of brothers are cleft in twain, nor does he allow a cowardly ne’er do well to stop the cart so that an attempt could be made to save the lives of the fallen brethren. G.O.D. will rain down upon the grieving party with a hailstorm of glass-encrusted zombies, uneven terrain, and perhaps a dragon or three for failing to make appropriate skill checks or properly utilizing a scouting skill. Do not taunt Happy Fun Ball.

I am a mere mortal. An Elf, even a Wood Elf of an excellent family lineage, cannot remain among the living for more than 700 or so years. No matter what skills I develop, what feats I earn, what courage I display on the battlefield, I will not live forever. That’s because I have low hit points.

I am incapable of understanding the inner-workings of GOD’s mind. That’s because GOD’s a male. Who wants to know what they’re thinking? Are they really ever thinking about anything other than booty anyway? While G.O.D. may have the stats, I have the Wild Empathy and could perhaps persuade a passing Arrowhawk to blast G.O.D. with its mighty Electricity Ray. I would never do that, however, because I am aligned with the forces of Good. Good people would never attack a friend, although they may get pissy every now and again owing to being forced to defend unto the death a cowardly bastard who obviously cheats oversized locals who happen to possess high armor class scores and hit points.

I do not understand complicated anatomy. If I were asked to reassemble a beloved Warforged companion who had fallen in battle attempting to save the lives of his comrades, I would struggle through my tears but would ultimately fail. However, I do understand the anatomy of a male, which is nothing more than a dick on a stick. A male is not complicated. Just feed it, fluff its hair, perhaps even show it a bit of skin. The male will be content until he dies. My G.O.D. is a male. A human male.

Mi director de las operaciones del juego, su ego no tiene ningun limite. He loves himself as much as we adore him. Without our G.O.D. we are nothing more than an itinerant band of unemployed skilled labor, wandering through life with no goals and no gold. However, although I may not know languages unknown to Eberron as my G.O.D. does, as a Wood Elf Ranger, skilled bowyer and accessible guide to the masses, I have resources that only a wisdom of 18 could utilize. I have a map of the internet!

500+ words: I has them.