What, then, is true power?

[PhoenixPhyre]

I was considering the thematics of 5e D&D, and decided to write some poetry. Is it good poetry? Probably not. Consider it a Homeric homage. I took liberties with the capabilities--chalk it up to poetic license.




A hungry traveler, wandering in the night
Chanced upon a campfire, a welcome sight
Around the fire, twelve figures argued
Wild and varied their looks,
Their styles.

“Of what do you argue, fine fellows?”
Asked the traveler, confused.
In unison the figures chorused
“Of power, and which is most,
And which is best.”

“Tell me, then, your tales”
The traveler declared.
“As payment for your fire, and your food
I’ll settle your quarrel.”

First up was the wild man; the muscled giant.
Fire in his eyes, shirtless.
Wordlessly, effortlessly hefting a giant tree
Broke it over his knee.

“I am rage incarnate!” he roared, and the rocks shook.
“My axe cleaves skulls, my skin deflects dragon fire.”
“No chains can hold me, my strength is as ten men.”
“Is this not true power?”

The next figure smiled slightly in the firelight
And plucked the strings of his harp.
The sound rang forth,
Promising glory and great deeds
And mysteries sublime.

“My power is over the hearts of men”, he intoned.
“My song guides friends hands and mends their troubles;”
“But these words also befuddle foes and break their minds.”
“I can change the proudest of hearts. “
“Is this not true power?”

The next stood, armored in steel and in her god.
In her hand, a symbol of faith unwavering
Glowed and promised healing and comfort to friends
But wrath to heretics and foes.

“True power comes from the gods”, she professed.
“I channel their wisdom, their majesty, their grace.”
“Through me they protect, they bless, and they smite.”
“I am the instrument of the Divine and my hands are their hands.”
“Is this not true power?”

Sitting a bit apart, the next figure spoke.
Her voice like the creaking of old trees in the wind,
Like rumbling earth, and wild shapes danced and leapt
To attention as she proclaimed:

“Anger, words, gods—These are all but part of Nature”
“And I am Nature’s servant. I call the storms,”
“Speak with the beasts, and take their shapes.”
“I am the judge of mankind’s folly, the guardian of balance.”
“Is this not true power?”

A disciplined man spoke next, his face framed by his helmet.
Festooned with weapons and dressed in well-worn armor,
His movements were sure and his voice
The voice of command.

“I have no need for your spells, your rage, your gods. Crutches all.”
“My power is the power of training, of discipline.”
“Alone with my weapons I stand against the tide.”
“And with flashing steel, turn it.”
“Is this not true power?”

A slender man, bald, unarmored
Spoke next, his voice quiet and calm.
“But you too, dear friend, have your crutches.”
Your weapons, your armor, your practiced techniques.”

“True power comes from within. Not from the wild rage
Of the berserker, not relying on tools forged by man,
But from meditation and wisdom. My body is my weapon
My soul is my armor. Though I float weightless as a leaf on the wind,
My fists carry the weight of the mountains.
Yet I am the calm at the center of the storm.
Is this not true power?”

A dwarf harrumphed, his beard shaking as he spoke.
His armor burnished, his shield emblazoned.
“A tunnel with faulty bracings cannot hold;
Nor can your power
Resting as it does on frail supports.”

“The gods can prove false, nature is capricious.
Training can fail, not all hearts can be moved by song.
But Oaths, kept, are forever. Power from devotion,
Confident, Strong. Shielding the weak
and smiting the faithless.
Is this not true power?”

“Nature is the key, I must agree,” said the next
Oiling her bowstring. “But man is part of nature
And Nature’s balance.” Dressed in leathers,
Brown and green, keen-eyed, graceful was she.

“I know my enemy, and my arrow knows its mark.
I find my way through the deepest dark—
Nature’s guardian? I am her friend; and yet a friend of man.
At home in forest or on mountain, in city or underground.
Is this not true power?”

“I don’t know about you, friend”, the ninth replied with a smirk
“But why go through problems when you can go around them
Or walk quietly by them, with them none the wiser?
The ninth—a slender woman in dark leathers, trimming her nails
With her keen daggers as she spoke.

“Stealth, skills, and treasure. These are my job. Do you need in
Where you shouldn’t be? Do you need that one dead, quiet as can be?
Maybe a lock picked, or a purse robbed. I can do that, for a price.
All these things and many more—and unlike the rest, I won’t boast about it later.
Is this not true power?”

“All that sounds too much like work to me,” the tenth snorted.
His breath a puff of smoke, his scales
(scales? Yes scales, like a dragon)
glimmering red in the flickering firelight,
The tenth was Dragonborn, proud child of fire and earth.

“While you go about practicing, praying, studying,”
(Glaring disdainfully at the last as he spoke this word)
“I have power in my blood. My ancestors were dragons—I am power.
My spells are adaptable, my power over the elements absolute.
Is this not true power?”

“But your power is bound to what you can frame yourself
And is only yours by fate of heritage, not by merit of your own”—
The eleventh disputed, her red skin and hair drinking in the firelight
And her tail twitching as she spoke—

“I have made deals with devils, outwitting them for knowledge arcane.
My power is evergreen—but a short span to catch my breath and it comes anew.
Service for service, deals made and kept. That is the true way of the world.
And with that service I gain mastery without study or accident of birth.
Is this not true power?”

Last, least (in height, that is), the twelfth gave voice.
A gnome, female, with robes and a walking staff
And reading from a book as large as she.

“Positively preposterous, you pretentious puffins.
True power is found in books, in learning, and in study.
I need no gods, no deals, no bloodline”—
(Sending back the glare at the 10th with these words)—
“All on my own I gather lost knowledge,
And with that knowledge rewrite reality to my will.
Is this not true power?”

Who now is right, dear reader?
The power is yours to decide.
And this, this is true power!

[rahimka]

Power. Power equals power. Crazy, huh? But the type of power? Doesn't matter as much as you'd think. It turns out, everything is oddly balanced. Weird, but true...

[Unoriginal]

Not bad at all. Have one of mine, on a similar theme, although it is a myth or a tale, rather than a poem.

One day, Annam, All-Father and master of giantkind, having spent weeks in deep thoughts, on his throne, called forth his six sons. First came clever Memnor, quick on his feet and already thinking about his next move. Then came joyful Stonmaus, always ready to answer the call of a family gathering. Then came wise Skoraeus Stonebones, his work just finished and his feet cautious. Then came prideful Surtur and resentful Thrym, whose competition to arrive before the other had slowed down. And then came Grolantor, like an afterthought.

"Sons," said Annam as they gathered, "it is my will that Giants have nothing but the best, and my will to give them the greatest weapon. Yet I look in the storm, in the clouds, in the ice, in the fire, in the depths of the earth and on its surface, and all I see are warriors clutching spears, clubs, axes, swords, rocks, a sea of different weapons! None I can see as worthy of my Giants. Leave my halls tonight, and when the twentieth sun rises, show me the weapon of giantkind.

Clever Memnor nodded, and left, only bringing with him a small silver ring, engraved with the names of the winds. He had just walked ten miles that the ring was traded for a fish of living steel, and ten miles after that the fish was traded for a flower that shun bright as the sun, and ten miles after that the flower was traded for an ox who once swallowed an hurricane. Long was his walk, quick where his exchanges, and soon no one knew where he was.

Joyful Stonmaus nodded, and left, only bringing with him his drinking horn. One by one, He visited the fishers, the hunters, the farmers, the sailors, the artisans, the scholars, the wise ones, the musicians, the kings and the beggars, the judges and the criminals, listening to their tales and their insights as merriment and festivities were ongoing. Long were the talks he listened, and on the tenth day he knew what to choose.

Wise Skoraeus Stonebones nodded, and left, only bringing with him his stone hammer and chisel. He went to the deepest cavern he knew and there, in darkness and silence, he set to work, ideas taking shape and shapes becoming ideas under his skillful hands and his skillful mind. And when he walked toward his fathers' halls, on the night before the twentieth sun, he knew his work was ready.

Prideful Surtur nodded, and left, only bringing with him his blacksmith hammer and anvil. He went to the greatest volcano, home of the greatest Fire Giant forge, and days and nights he hammers and bellowed and ordered each and every giant with one task, one purpose, until the shape that was in his mind was wrestled out of the incandescent metal. And when the eleventh sun hit finally silent forge, his work left to cool, he knew he would win.

Resentful Thrym nodded, and left, only bringing a great claw with him, trophy of one of his hunts. He sat in a forest clearing, near a river, called for his ten brave companions, and gave his instructions. At each of the first ten sunrises, each of the braves brought him a mighty white dragon, dead in his name. When the tenth, biggest and mightiest of all, was given to him, he set to work with his great claw, slicing leather and skin and scales. And as the twentieth sun was about to rise, he hurried to his father's halls, his work on his shoulder, and he knew he would surpass all the others.

Grolantor nodded, and left. He saw a great tree near the door, sat down under it, and he slept. Then he saw a great hawk in the sky, killed it with one stone, and he ate. And then he saw the servants bring a great cask of beer to his father's halls, and he drank. And as he woke up as the twentieth sun was rising, he went back into the halls.

Annam said "Come forth, children, and show me the weapon of giantkind."

Clever Memnor advanced, taking his answer from under his cape. It was a thin, swift sword, a snake from a distant land. "This is the weapon of giantkind," Memnor said, the blade dancing in his hand, "swift to strike, first to kill, perfect in the hands of the agile, capable of piercing the Wyrm's skin with as much ease as the giant's plate." And he set it on the ground, awaiting judgement.

Joyful Stonmaus advanced, taking his answer from his belt and his back. It was a sword long enough for one or two hands, and a shield, trusted companions of so many through the lands. "This is the weapon of giantkind," Stonmaus said, hiding behind the shield and readying the sword, before letting the shield go and taking the sword with two hands, before continuing: "The rich, the poor, the soldier and the non-combatant, all desire protection, and all need something that fits many trials and circumstances of various natures." And he set them on the ground, awaiting judgement.

Wise Skoraeus Stonebones advanced, his answer already in his hand, having walked with it. It was a staff, long, balanced, a traveler's aid in many forms. "This is the weapon of giantkind", Skoraeus Stonebones said, and stopped. "As Stonmaus said, all need something that fits many trials and various circumstances," he said, waving the staff with one or two hands, using it as a cane and a weapon. "And as Memnor said, swift to strike." And Skoraus Stonebones struck the air twice in the time it would have taken Memnor to strike once. And he set it on the ground, awaiting judgement.

Prideful Surtur advanced, removing his answer from the golden chest he had transported it in. It was a sword, longer than any of the weapons so far, so much so Annam himself could have not used it without using his two hands. "This is the weapon of giantkind", Surtur said, nonchalantly. "Powerful, deadly, unmatched and reliable. As for protection...", he hit his armored chest, as if wordlessly daring anyone to challenge the protection he gave himself. And he set it on the ground, awaiting judgement.

Resentful Thrym avanced, his eyes glowing from his anger at his siblings' boasts, removing his answer from his shoulder. It was a net, heavy, wide, made of the tied skin of ten of the most fearsome white dragons of the world. "This is the weapon of giantkind, " Thrym said, "as it does not matter how swift, how powerful, how protected or how versatile you think you are! When you are caught, you are a prey, and no one can avoid being caught by this!" And he set it on the ground, awaiting judgement.

Grolantor advanced, and he looked at his hands, empty. And he sat down under the mocking glares of his family, his empty hands falling on the ground.

Annam stayed silent, observing the display of weapons and arguments. When the sun reached zenith, he said: "It seems, if my mind is not failing me, than it is only by fighting each other than those weapons will show which surpass the others. Take your weapon, children, and use it. Show me the weapon of giantkind "

And the sons of Annam nodded, some at the wisdom of the words, some at the chance of sanctioned violence against their brothers. And all took a step to grab their weapons.

"Stop!", roared Grolantor, so loudly all in the halls fell silent. And all gave him a puzzled look, wondering what his next buffoonery was going to be. "Father said to take your weapon, and use it. Why are you all using mine?"

The siblings stayed silent, wondering what Grolantor meant. Then Skoraeus Stonebones understood, and looked at his hands in shock, then at Grolantor's, still on the ground, next to Memnor's blade, Stonmaus's sword-and-shield, his staff, Surtur's greatsword and Thrym's net. Memnor was next, his face painted with horror. Thrym did not understand, his rage menacing to make his blood boils, until Grolantor, after getting on his feet, came to him and shattered his jaw with one punch. Surtur tried to defend, but found himself grabbed by the feet and used to clobber Memnor into the ground with the single-minded determination Grolantor was capable of, until neither moved. Stonmaus was brought low by two punches to the guts, one to the head, and the threat of breaking his wrist. And Skoraeus Stonebones surrendered, unwilling to experience his brothers' fates.

Grolantor turned to Annam, who was dumbfounded. Grolantor said: "You already gave us the greatest weapon, Father. Not those tools that are nothing without one to use them. Giantkind is the weapon of giantkind."

And no one in Annam's halls ever forgot this lesson.

[Requilac]

Actually, a newly published study by the Bard’s College of Lore has brought an answer to your question. Although a sorcerer who spends all their Sorcerery Points in making spell slots and the uses all of their spell slots to cast Lightning Bolt on the turbine creates the generates the most immediate wattage, it is not a very sustainable source of energy. Two barbarians taking turns running on a hamster wheel though produces a constant source of power that surpasses the sorcerer in wattage production after exactly a year and a day.

Therefore, we can conclude that while a sorcerer may produce more power in the short term, two barbarians and a hamster wheel is the best long term decision for a permenant power plant.

Last August the Wizard’s College of Divination experimented to see if a Coffeelock who spent ten years developing spell slots and then continually blasted the turbine with lightning bolt produced more power. It didn’t end well though, because even though the turbine was made of enchanted Adamantine it ended up exploding due to overcharge. Perhaps in the future turbines will be strong enough to handle the constant onslaught of Coffeelock style lightning bolts, but for now the hamsterbarian will have to do.





Oh who are we kidding, we all know that the Sorcer King is without a doubt the most powerful thing in all existence and nonexistence. Why do we even bother asking?

[Corran]

“True power comes from within. Not from the wild rage
Of the berserker, not relying on tools forged by man,
But from meditation and wisdom. My body is my weapon
My soul is my armor. Though I float weightless as a leaf on the wind,
My fists carry the weight of the mountains.
Yet I am the calm at the center of the storm.
Is this not true power?”


This part speaks to me the most
So I feel I should say monk.
The poet must think the same.
Else why every other character seems to be talking in vain?
Monk is the answer, the poem admits it.
It's not an admission of words,
But the language speaks loud enough for me to hear.
Monk is the right answer and the poet thinks the same,
That much is clear.
Do you hear all?
The answer has been found.
Learn it by heart
And with one voice let us say it out loud.
''The poet says so'' is a strong argument I bet,
But noise is even stronger yet.
But what if the poet is wrong?
A scary thought.
But what would I know?
This is my first thought on the matter.
Perhaps all thoughts are scary and not just the latter.
Or perhaps thoughts themselves aren't scary,
Only the lack thereof.
A thinking man can stand on his own,
Or next to others just as well.
While lack of thought only thrives in company,
That's why it seeks it out with so much zeal.
And what's this?!


Who now is right, dear reader?
The power is yours to decide.
And this, this is true power!

Maybe that's what the poet was trying to tell me all along.
Or so I understand now,
Yet, once again I could be wrong.
In this case it doesn't hurt,
Just as long as I don't forget to use my head.
So I am going back to the beginning,
Back to the place I was,
Just before my eager instinct highjacked my thought process.
And though I am heading back,
With speed and no remorse,
It certainly feels like progress.
Because my thoughts are on the wheel now.
And so I start again.
This part speaks to me the most.
So I feel I should say monk.
The poet must think the same.
But I need time to think it through,
Before I proudly proclaim it to be true.
And if it proves to be as light as a leaf dancing in the wind,
Then what will I gain by sticking to it as my belief?
Choosing a theme after all is not a light matter,
Killing monsters and stealing their gold aside, it's D&D's bread and butter.

[Dungeon-noob]

Not bad at all. Have one of mine, on a similar theme, although it is a myth or a tale, rather than a poem.

One day, Annam, All-Father and master of giantkind, having spent weeks in deep thoughts, on his throne, called forth his six sons. First came clever Memnor, quick on his feet and already thinking about his next move. Then came joyful Stonmaus, always ready to answer the call of a family gathering. Then came wise Skoraeus Stonebones, his work just finished and his feet cautious. Then came prideful Surtur and resentful Thrym, whose competition to arrive before the other had slowed down. And then came Grolantor, like an afterthought.

"Sons," said Annam as they gathered, "it is my will that Giants have nothing but the best, and my will to give them the greatest weapon. Yet I look in the storm, in the clouds, in the ice, in the fire, in the depths of the earth and on its surface, and all I see are warriors clutching spears, clubs, axes, swords, rocks, a sea of different weapons! None I can see as worthy of my Giants. Leave my halls tonight, and when the twentieth sun rises, show me the weapon of giantkind.

Clever Memnor nodded, and left, only bringing with him a small silver ring, engraved with the names of the winds. He had just walked ten miles that the ring was traded for a fish of living steel, and ten miles after that the fish was traded for a flower that shun bright as the sun, and ten miles after that the flower was traded for an ox who once swallowed an hurricane. Long was his walk, quick where his exchanges, and soon no one knew where he was.

Joyful Stonmaus nodded, and left, only bringing with him his drinking horn. One by one, He visited the fishers, the hunters, the farmers, the sailors, the artisans, the scholars, the wise ones, the musicians, the kings and the beggars, the judges and the criminals, listening to their tales and their insights as merriment and festivities were ongoing. Long were the talks he listened, and on the tenth day he knew what to choose.

Wise Skoraeus Stonebones nodded, and left, only bringing with him his stone hammer and chisel. He went to the deepest cavern he knew and there, in darkness and silence, he set to work, ideas taking shape and shapes becoming ideas under his skillful hands and his skillful mind. And when he walked toward his fathers' halls, on the night before the twentieth sun, he knew his work was ready.

Prideful Surtur nodded, and left, only bringing with him his blacksmith hammer and anvil. He went to the greatest volcano, home of the greatest Fire Giant forge, and days and nights he hammers and bellowed and ordered each and every giant with one task, one purpose, until the shape that was in his mind was wrestled out of the incandescent metal. And when the eleventh sun hit finally silent forge, his work left to cool, he knew he would win.

Resentful Thrym nodded, and left, only bringing a great claw with him, trophy of one of his hunts. He sat in a forest clearing, near a river, called for his ten brave companions, and gave his instructions. At each of the first ten sunrises, each of the braves brought him a mighty white dragon, dead in his name. When the tenth, biggest and mightiest of all, was given to him, he set to work with his great claw, slicing leather and skin and scales. And as the twentieth sun was about to rise, he hurried to his father's halls, his work on his shoulder, and he knew he would surpass all the others.

Grolantor nodded, and left. He saw a great tree near the door, sat down under it, and he slept. Then he saw a great hawk in the sky, killed it with one stone, and he ate. And then he saw the servants bring a great cask of beer to his father's halls, and he drank. And as he woke up as the twentieth sun was rising, he went back into the halls.

Annam said "Come forth, children, and show me the weapon of giantkind."

Clever Memnor advanced, taking his answer from under his cape. It was a thin, swift sword, a snake from a distant land. "This is the weapon of giantkind," Memnor said, the blade dancing in his hand, "swift to strike, first to kill, perfect in the hands of the agile, capable of piercing the Wyrm's skin with as much ease as the giant's plate." And he set it on the ground, awaiting judgement.

Joyful Stonmaus advanced, taking his answer from his belt and his back. It was a sword long enough for one or two hands, and a shield, trusted companions of so many through the lands. "This is the weapon of giantkind," Stonmaus said, hiding behind the shield and readying the sword, before letting the shield go and taking the sword with two hands, before continuing: "The rich, the poor, the soldier and the non-combatant, all desire protection, and all need something that fits many trials and circumstances of various natures." And he set them on the ground, awaiting judgement.

Wise Skoraeus Stonebones advanced, his answer already in his hand, having walked with it. It was a staff, long, balanced, a traveler's aid in many forms. "This is the weapon of giantkind", Skoraeus Stonebones said, and stopped. "As Stonmaus said, all need something that fits many trials and various circumstances," he said, waving the staff with one or two hands, using it as a cane and a weapon. "And as Memnor said, swift to strike." And Skoraus Stonebones struck the air twice in the time it would have taken Memnor to strike once. And he set it on the ground, awaiting judgement.

Prideful Surtur advanced, removing his answer from the golden chest he had transported it in. It was a sword, longer than any of the weapons so far, so much so Annam himself could have not used it without using his two hands. "This is the weapon of giantkind", Surtur said, nonchalantly. "Powerful, deadly, unmatched and reliable. As for protection...", he hit his armored chest, as if wordlessly daring anyone to challenge the protection he gave himself. And he set it on the ground, awaiting judgement.

Resentful Thrym avanced, his eyes glowing from his anger at his siblings' boasts, removing his answer from his shoulder. It was a net, heavy, wide, made of the tied skin of ten of the most fearsome white dragons of the world. "This is the weapon of giantkind, " Thrym said, "as it does not matter how swift, how powerful, how protected or how versatile you think you are! When you are caught, you are a prey, and no one can avoid being caught by this!" And he set it on the ground, awaiting judgement.

Grolantor advanced, and he looked at his hands, empty. And he sat down under the mocking glares of his family, his empty hands falling on the ground.

Annam stayed silent, observing the display of weapons and arguments. When the sun reached zenith, he said: "It seems, if my mind is not failing me, than it is only by fighting each other than those weapons will show which surpass the others. Take your weapon, children, and use it. Show me the weapon of giantkind "

And the sons of Annam nodded, some at the wisdom of the words, some at the chance of sanctioned violence against their brothers. And all took a step to grab their weapons.

"Stop!", roared Grolantor, so loudly all in the halls fell silent. And all gave him a puzzled look, wondering what his next buffoonery was going to be. "Father said to take your weapon, and use it. Why are you all using mine?"

The siblings stayed silent, wondering what Grolantor meant. Then Skoraeus Stonebones understood, and looked at his hands in shock, then at Grolantor's, still on the ground, next to Memnor's blade, Stonmaus's sword-and-shield, his staff, Surtur's greatsword and Thrym's net. Memnor was next, his face painted with horror. Thrym did not understand, his rage menacing to make his blood boils, until Grolantor, after getting on his feet, came to him and shattered his jaw with one punch. Surtur tried to defend, but found himself grabbed by the feet and used to clobber Memnor into the ground with the single-minded determination Grolantor was capable of, until neither moved. Stonmaus was brought low by two punches to the guts, one to the head, and the threat of breaking his wrist. And Skoraeus Stonebones surrendered, unwilling to experience his brothers' fates.

Grolantor turned to Annam, who was dumbfounded. Grolantor said: "You already gave us the greatest weapon, Father. Not those tools that are nothing without one to use them. Giantkind is the weapon of giantkind."

And no one in Annam's halls ever forgot this lesson.
SOO going to steal this for SKT. That is great. Thanks you.

[PhoenixPhyre]

This part speaks to me the most
So I feel I should say monk.
The poet must think the same.
Else why every other character seems to be talking in vain?
Monk is the answer, the poem admits it.
It's not an admission of words,
But the language speaks loud enough for me to hear.
Monk is the right answer and the poet thinks the same,
That much is clear.
Do you hear all?
The answer has been found.
Learn it by heart
And with one voice let us say it out loud.
''The poet says so'' is a good argument I bet,
But noise is even stronger yet.
But what if the poet is wrong?
A scary thought.
But what would I know?
This is my first thought on the matter.
Perhaps all thoughts are scary and not just the latter.
Or perhaps thoughts themselves aren't scary,
Only the lack thereof.
A thinking man can stand on his own,
Or next to others just as well.
While lack of thought only thrives in company,
That's why it seeks it out with so much zeal.
And what's this?!

Maybe that's what the poet was trying to tell me all along.
Or so I understand now,
Yet, once again I could be wrong.
In this case it doesn't hurt,
Just as long as I don't forget to use my head.
So I am going back to the beginning,
Back to the place I was,
Just before my failing instinct highjacked my thought process.
And though I am heading back,
With speed and no remorse,
It certainly feels like progress.
Because my thoughts are on the wheel now.
And so I start again.
This part speaks to me the most.
So I feel I should say monk.
The poet must think the same.
But I need time to think it through,
Before I proudly proclaim it to be true.
And if it proves to be as light as a leaf dancing in the wind,
Then what will I gain by sticking to it as my belief?
Choosing a theme after all is not a light matter,
Killing monsters and stealing their gold aside, it's D&D's bread and butter.

Great! I like the response. It was strange how some of them just flowed out while others took work. Poor ranger--I had the hardest time with yours and it just felt...underwhelming. I couldn't get a clear picture of what they'd be.

[Dungeon-noob]

Great! I like the response. It was strange how some of them just flowed out while others took work. Poor ranger--I had the hardest time with yours and it just felt...underwhelming. I couldn't get a clear picture of what they'd be.
Probably because the class as a whole suffers from that to a certain extent as well. It's half druid half fighter, not as good as either at what they do. It's still great you made a cool poem about the whole thing. Might save it to show to new players.

[Corran]

Great! I like the response. It was strange how some of them just flowed out while others took work. Poor ranger--I had the hardest time with yours and it just felt...underwhelming. I couldn't get a clear picture of what they'd be.
You simple minded buffoon! If you cannot understand that my poem basically said that the right answer is a monk/bard/wizard/barbarian (how more explicit did you need it to be made?), then don't bother yourself with poetry... :smallbiggrin:

On a more serious note, the man in my poem reaches a conclusion through illogical means, which makes his position vulnerable, so his reflex defense is to think that others (he goes so far as to rapidly even become certain that this is what the poet thinks) believe the same thing hence it must hold. I took the liberty and assumed that the question (which one of them holds true power) was far from a matter of taste, but an actual problem with correct and wrong answers. I'll admit I liked the monk's quote the most, hence why I picked it. :smallsmile: But ''me'' saying that 'this is what the poet thinks' is not a critique to your poem, it is a mistake on that person's part.

[PhoenixPhyre]

You simple minded buffoon! If you cannot understand that my poem basically said that the right answer is a monk/bard/wizard/barbarian (how more explicit did you need it to be made?), then don't bother yourself with poetry... :smallbiggrin:

On a more serious note, the man in my poem reaches a conclusion through illogical means, which makes his position vulnerable, so his reflex defense is to think that others (he goes so far as to rapidly even become certain that this is what the poet thinks) believe the same thing hence it must hold. I took the liberty and assumed that the question (which one of them holds true power) was far from a matter of taste, but an actual problem with correct and wrong answers. I'll admit I liked the monk's quote the most, hence why I picked it. :smallsmile: But ''me'' saying that 'this is what the poet thinks' is not a critique to your poem, it is a mistake on that person's part.

I got that. I was just spring-boarding off of the perceived point that some descriptions resonate more than others.

[Unoriginal]

SOO going to steal this for SKT. That is great. Thanks you.

Thank you. Glad you liked it.

I wouldn' know how fitting for SKT it'd be, though.

[Corran]

I got that. I was just spring-boarding off of the perceived point that some descriptions resonate more than others.
Out of curiosity, which description do you like the most?

[Dungeon-noob]

Out of curiosity, which description do you like the most?
Monk for me. If something you did can be invalidated by taking something else out of the equasion, then how much of that accomplishment was yours in the first place? A wizard without his spellbook loses their vaunted versatililty, if he can cast at all. A cleric only uses the power, it is given to him by his god, much like the warlock. A palladin and/or fighter isn't so impressive without all their armor, gear and weapons. Even the independent sorcerer is helpless in an antimagic field. But a monk is truly undaunted by all of that, all their power and abilities truly their own and nothing or no one else's.

[Corran]

Monk for me. If something you did can be invalidated by taking something else out of the equasion, then how much of that accomplishment was yours in the first place? A wizard without his spellbook loses their vaunted versatililty, if he can cast at all. A cleric only uses the power, it is given to him by his god, much like the warlock. A palladin and/or fighter isn't so impressive without all their armor, gear and weapons. Even the independent sorcerer is helpless in an antimagic field. But a monk is truly undaunted by all of that, all their power and abilities truly their own and nothing or no one else's.
I like the monk's answer the most too.
A strong case though can be made for the warlock too. Yeah, warlock's magic will shut down like everyone else's in an antimagic field, but I think of it this way. All the other classes were either trained or gifted enough to qualify to become adventurers. The warlock was an average person, no special training or talents, who in an instant (or in a very short time if you prefer) managed to reach adventurer/class level, just because they made a deal with someone. That quick a jump in power can certainly justify to some extent the belief that this is true power, simply because of how quickly it became their new nature. Like if the ''power suit'' is a natural fit for them.

[PhoenixPhyre]

Out of curiosity, which description do you like the most?

I'll answer not by personal preference, but by which one was easiest to write/came most clearly.

Barbarian was very easy to get the general premise, but hard to shape the exact wording. Does make a great epic boast, though.

Bard makes a strong contrast between the outward, physical nature of the barbarian and the bard's power over hearts and minds. Does understate the versatility of the bard somewhat.

Cleric was obvious and almost wrote itself.

Druid was hard mainly in finding good words that flowed, the concept was clear.

Fighter gives a great "I'm not reliant on something else or emotions--it's just me, my training, and my weapons" (this independence makes a theme in contrasts--some rely on others for power, others on self.

Monk came out very nice, I have to agree. His is not the flashy power (which causes some to misjudge him), but his is entirely internal. "Know thyself" is the motto.

Paladin...I like the idea but it wasn't my best effort. It's self-reliant in a different sense. The Oath is perfect as long as you uphold it. Reliable but also contingent.

Ranger I've already mentioned as being hard to write. Rangers have the least-clear "This is me" statement of all the classes, at least in the core presentation.

I liked the shift in tone for rogues--note that the rogue doesn't talk about power at all. Merely about getting the job done right. Results speak, not boasts.

Sorcerer...meh. Not my favorite. It was a struggle to write it, although the theme was clear.

Warlock ended up with a good identity/voice IMO (although it really only applies to Fiend-Pact warlocks). This (and sorcerers) is one where the sub-class matters a lot in the presentation.

Wizards--I tried to capture the "educated academic" voice. Not sure how well it worked.

So I guess, as a writer, my least favorites were Sorcerer, Wizard, and Ranger, with Paladin as...merely OK. The rest it's hard to choose between.

For the record, I normally play clerics and am currently playing a warlock 2/bard X.

[mephnick]

Going to be honest, I thought this was going to be a Sorcerer King thread.

[PhoenixPhyre]

Going to be honest, I thought this was going to be a Sorcerer King thread.

I was seriously tempted to end the poem with a Sorcerer King joke, but refrained. :smallbiggrin:

[dejarnjc]

Actually, a newly published study by the Bard’s College of Lore has brought an answer to your question. Although a sorcerer who spends all their Sorcerery Points in making spell slots and the uses all of their spell slots to cast Lightning Bolt on the turbine creates the generates the most immediate wattage, it is not a very sustainable source of energy. Two barbarians taking turns running on a hamster wheel though produces a constant source of power that surpasses the sorcerer in wattage production after exactly a year and a day.

Therefore, we can conclude that while a sorcerer may produce more power in the short term, two barbarians and a hamster wheel is the best long term decision for a permenant power plant.

Last August the Wizard’s College of Divination experimented to see if a Coffeelock who spent ten years developing spell slots and then continually blasted the turbine with lightning bolt produced more power. It didn’t end well though, because even though the turbine was made of enchanted Adamantine it ended up exploding due to overcharge. Perhaps in the future turbines will be strong enough to handle the constant onslaught of Coffeelock style lightning bolts, but for now the hamsterbarian will have to do.

Ahh hah! But that same college also determined that the hamsterbarian requires FOOD in order to continue producing power and whom among the classes can produce the most food per day? Why the mighty cleric of course.


Although I suppose the sneaky druid with his/her goodberries (and plant growth) can actually provide the most calories per day on a consistent basis.

[Corran]

I liked the shift in tone for rogues--note that the rogue doesn't talk about power at all. Merely about getting the job done right. Results speak, not boasts.

Ooh, I caught that. Reaching the end of the rogue's passage I was guessing that she might not even word the question that everyone else asked (''Is this not true power?). I was imagining a smirk look that would silently imply sth like ''tell me this is not true power''. But yeah, the change in tone was indeed very noticeable and enjoyable.

[PhoenixPhyre]

Ooh, I caught that. Reaching the end of the rogue's passage I was guessing that she might not even word the question that everyone else asked (''Is this not true power?). I was imagining a smirk look that would silently imply sth like ''tell me this is not true power''. But yeah, the change in tone was indeed very noticeable and enjoyable.

That one was a bit of a revelation for me. I like the "what's the source of my power" concept from 4e for differentiating classes, and always struggled with rogues. They don't feel martial (training/weapons) like fighters, but they're certainly not primal, divine, or arcane. Realizing that rogues are pragmatic--whatever works, getting the job done is the key for them. Arcane gadgets? Sure, I'll use them, but they're just tool. Sweet-talking strange beings (gods or spirits)? Sure. Don't expect me to buy in to the woo though. Weapons? I'll use whatever's at hand.

My OCD about symmetry forced me to end it with the conventional response ("Is this not true power?"), but I feel she was saying it with a very 4th-wall-aware, rolling-the-eyes at the formulaic nature attitude.

Glad it came through well.

[GlenSmash!]

I admire you poets. I have not the skill.

But to answer your riddle Power is Work over Time.

[noob]

Actually it is not exactly balanced: warlocks have to make pacts to gain their powers and clerics are at the mercy of their gods.
While a druid just gets its power from some nebulous source without having to really pay and a sorcerer gets its power from birth thus both of them have no problems with outside powers.(wizard also gets power but at the cost of spending years in studying magic hard and fighters and other trained classes like that gets power from training really hard for a few years(or even as long as a wizard in the case of monks))

[Personification]

Ooh, I caught that. Reaching the end of the rogue's passage I was guessing that she might not even word the question that everyone else asked (''Is this not true power?). I was imagining a smirk look that would silently imply sth like ''tell me this is not true power''. But yeah, the change in tone was indeed very noticeable and enjoyable
That one was a bit of a revelation for me. I like the "what's the source of my power" concept from 4e for differentiating classes, and always struggled with rogues. They don't feel martial (training/weapons) like fighters, but they're certainly not primal, divine, or arcane. Realizing that rogues are pragmatic--whatever works, getting the job done is the key for them. Arcane gadgets? Sure, I'll use them, but they're just tool. Sweet-talking strange beings (gods or spirits)? Sure. Don't expect me to buy in to the woo though. Weapons? I'll use whatever's at hand.

My OCD about symmetry forced me to end it with the conventional response ("Is this not true power?"), but I feel she was saying it with a very 4th-wall-aware, rolling-the-eyes at the formulaic nature attitude.

Glad it came through well.

I actually really expected a riff on "money is power" somewhere in there. I think that the idea that the rogue is pushing is that even if you have the most powerful wizard or the most powerful fighter or the most powerful barbarian, you'll still all end up going out of your way to hire the burglar, and no matter how over the top your spells are, when kings and queens and peasants and politicians need someone or something moved or removed, they all come crawling to the rogue.

[PhoenixPhyre]

I actually really expected a riff on "money is power" somewhere in there. I think that the idea that the rogue is pushing is that even if you have the most powerful wizard or the most powerful fighter or the most powerful barbarian, you'll still all end up going out of your way to hire the burglar, and no matter how over the top your spells are, when kings and queens and peasants and politicians need someone or something moved or removed, they all come crawling to the rogue.

Quite true and often overlooked. The rogue's power is all about what she can get done. And implicitly, what others can't (at least not as simply). It's the rogue's indispensability that she's pushing as her "power".

[Deadfire182]

I'm just replying to save for later, because holy heck that was good.

[PhoenixPhyre]

I'm just replying to save for later, because holy heck that was good.

Glad to hear you liked it. It was one of those things that burrowed into my brain and wouldn't leave until I wrote it down.

[Skylivedk]

I was considering the thematics of 5e D&D, and decided to write some poetry. Is it good poetry? Probably not. Consider it a Homeric homage. I took liberties with the capabilities--chalk it up to poetic license.



“My power is over the hearts of men”, he intoned.
“My song guides friends hands and mends their troubles;”
“But these words also befuddle foes and break their minds.”
“I can change the proudest of hearts. “
“Is this not true power?”

A slender man, bald, unarmored
Spoke next, his voice quiet and calm.
“But you too, dear friend, have your crutches.”
Your weapons, your armor, your practiced techniques.”

“True power comes from within. Not from the wild rage
Of the berserker, not relying on tools forged by man,
But from meditation and wisdom. My body is my weapon
My soul is my armor. Though I float weightless as a leaf on the wind,
My fists carry the weight of the mountains.
Yet I am the calm at the center of the storm.
Is this not true power?”

“Stealth, skills, and treasure. These are my job. Do you need in
Where you shouldn’t be? Do you need that one dead, quiet as can be?
Maybe a lock picked, or a purse robbed. I can do that, for a price.
All these things and many more—and unlike the rest, I won’t boast about it later.
Is this not true power?”

Last, least (in height, that is), the twelfth gave voice.
A gnome, female, with robes and a walking staff
And reading from a book as large as she.

“Positively preposterous, you pretentious puffins.
True power is found in books, in learning, and in study.
I need no gods, no deals, no bloodline”—
(Sending back the glare at the 10th with these words)—
“All on my own I gather lost knowledge,
And with that knowledge rewrite reality to my will.
Is this not true power?”

Who now is right, dear reader?
The power is yours to decide.
And this, this is true power!


Power is what you can do
So for power to ring true
We measure how you affect the world around you
He who can turn the sky dark from blue
Flash steel, shoot arrow and break trees
Only hold a couple of many keys
There's a force greater than any nation
I claim the truest power to be that of creation

- the writer lifted his head smiling.

And a suggestion for the three above:

"My power is over the hearts of men”, he intoned.
“My song guides friends hands and mends their troubles;”
“But these words also befuddle foes and break their minds.”
“I can change the proudest of hearts. “
“Is this not true power?”"

To:

"My power can dethrone kings
And light a room with joy a child's smile brings
I've no need to lift a blade
True beauty conquers hate
And I've yet to seen a muscle as strong
As my silver tongue"




In the original, monk and Wizard appealed the most to me. I'll give alternative takes on some of the others later.

[Amdy_vill]

I was considering the thematics of 5e D&D, and decided to write some poetry. Is it good poetry? Probably not. Consider it a Homeric homage. I took liberties with the capabilities--chalk it up to poetic license.




A hungry traveler, wandering in the night
Chanced upon a campfire, a welcome sight
Around the fire, twelve figures argued
Wild and varied their looks,
Their styles.

“Of what do you argue, fine fellows?”
Asked the traveler, confused.
In unison the figures chorused
“Of power, and which is most,
And which is best.”

“Tell me, then, your tales”
The traveler declared.
“As payment for your fire, and your food
I’ll settle your quarrel.”

First up was the wild man; the muscled giant.
Fire in his eyes, shirtless.
Wordlessly, effortlessly hefting a giant tree
Broke it over his knee.

“I am rage incarnate!” he roared, and the rocks shook.
“My axe cleaves skulls, my skin deflects dragon fire.”
“No chains can hold me, my strength is as ten men.”
“Is this not true power?”

The next figure smiled slightly in the firelight
And plucked the strings of his harp.
The sound rang forth,
Promising glory and great deeds
And mysteries sublime.

“My power is over the hearts of men”, he intoned.
“My song guides friends hands and mends their troubles;”
“But these words also befuddle foes and break their minds.”
“I can change the proudest of hearts. “
“Is this not true power?”

The next stood, armored in steel and in her god.
In her hand, a symbol of faith unwavering
Glowed and promised healing and comfort to friends
But wrath to heretics and foes.

“True power comes from the gods”, she professed.
“I channel their wisdom, their majesty, their grace.”
“Through me they protect, they bless, and they smite.”
“I am the instrument of the Divine and my hands are their hands.”
“Is this not true power?”

Sitting a bit apart, the next figure spoke.
Her voice like the creaking of old trees in the wind,
Like rumbling earth, and wild shapes danced and leapt
To attention as she proclaimed:

“Anger, words, gods—These are all but part of Nature”
“And I am Nature’s servant. I call the storms,”
“Speak with the beasts, and take their shapes.”
“I am the judge of mankind’s folly, the guardian of balance.”
“Is this not true power?”

A disciplined man spoke next, his face framed by his helmet.
Festooned with weapons and dressed in well-worn armor,
His movements were sure and his voice
The voice of command.

“I have no need for your spells, your rage, your gods. Crutches all.”
“My power is the power of training, of discipline.”
“Alone with my weapons I stand against the tide.”
“And with flashing steel, turn it.”
“Is this not true power?”

A slender man, bald, unarmored
Spoke next, his voice quiet and calm.
“But you too, dear friend, have your crutches.”
Your weapons, your armor, your practiced techniques.”

“True power comes from within. Not from the wild rage
Of the berserker, not relying on tools forged by man,
But from meditation and wisdom. My body is my weapon
My soul is my armor. Though I float weightless as a leaf on the wind,
My fists carry the weight of the mountains.
Yet I am the calm at the center of the storm.
Is this not true power?”

A dwarf harrumphed, his beard shaking as he spoke.
His armor burnished, his shield emblazoned.
“A tunnel with faulty bracings cannot hold;
Nor can your power
Resting as it does on frail supports.”

“The gods can prove false, nature is capricious.
Training can fail, not all hearts can be moved by song.
But Oaths, kept, are forever. Power from devotion,
Confident, Strong. Shielding the weak
and smiting the faithless.
Is this not true power?”

“Nature is the key, I must agree,” said the next
Oiling her bowstring. “But man is part of nature
And Nature’s balance.” Dressed in leathers,
Brown and green, keen-eyed, graceful was she.

“I know my enemy, and my arrow knows its mark.
I find my way through the deepest dark—
Nature’s guardian? I am her friend; and yet a friend of man.
At home in forest or on mountain, in city or underground.
Is this not true power?”

“I don’t know about you, friend”, the ninth replied with a smirk
“But why go through problems when you can go around them
Or walk quietly by them, with them none the wiser?
The ninth—a slender woman in dark leathers, trimming her nails
With her keen daggers as she spoke.

“Stealth, skills, and treasure. These are my job. Do you need in
Where you shouldn’t be? Do you need that one dead, quiet as can be?
Maybe a lock picked, or a purse robbed. I can do that, for a price.
All these things and many more—and unlike the rest, I won’t boast about it later.
Is this not true power?”

“All that sounds too much like work to me,” the tenth snorted.
His breath a puff of smoke, his scales
(scales? Yes scales, like a dragon)
glimmering red in the flickering firelight,
The tenth was Dragonborn, proud child of fire and earth.

“While you go about practicing, praying, studying,”
(Glaring disdainfully at the last as he spoke this word)
“I have power in my blood. My ancestors were dragons—I am power.
My spells are adaptable, my power over the elements absolute.
Is this not true power?”

“But your power is bound to what you can frame yourself
And is only yours by fate of heritage, not by merit of your own”—
The eleventh disputed, her red skin and hair drinking in the firelight
And her tail twitching as she spoke—

“I have made deals with devils, outwitting them for knowledge arcane.
My power is evergreen—but a short span to catch my breath and it comes anew.
Service for service, deals made and kept. That is the true way of the world.
And with that service I gain mastery without study or accident of birth.
Is this not true power?”

Last, least (in height, that is), the twelfth gave voice.
A gnome, female, with robes and a walking staff
And reading from a book as large as she.

“Positively preposterous, you pretentious puffins.
True power is found in books, in learning, and in study.
I need no gods, no deals, no bloodline”—
(Sending back the glare at the 10th with these words)—
“All on my own I gather lost knowledge,
And with that knowledge rewrite reality to my will.
Is this not true power?”

Who now is right, dear reader?
The power is yours to decide.
And this, this is true power!


Shorten it or break it into a few poems really all i can suggest besides clean up you story.

[Talionis]

To Crush your Enemies. To see them driven before you. And to hear the lamentations of their women...Conan the Barbarian