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‘Twas back in the day,
The grognards all say,
That low level wizards would die.
It took just one hit,
To cause them to quit,
One spell and their magic ran dry.
They’d simper and cower,
And slowly gain power,
As fighters did carry them through;
But then the day came,
Which would change the game:
They’d learn to cast spell level two.
Invisible then,
They felt like real men,
As powerful magics did call;
Their might we would see,
At spell level three,
Once they could cast a fireball.
And from that point on,
The contest was won,
No warrior could hope to meet,
The strength of their spells,
Their whistles and bells,
No sword or bow could ever beat.
The one thing to stay,
Them ruling all play,
Was the limits of their own smarts,
Intelligence, see,
Was the vital key,
To mastering the mystic arts.
Now some may not know,
Why this was a blow,
So keep in mind this simple thought:
A random dice spread,
Did fill folks with dread,
‘Cos stats were once rolled and not bought.
Or some of us still roll stats because point buy doth send us into frothing paroxysm of teeth gnashing.
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Or some of us still roll stats because point buy doth send us into frothing paroxysm of teeth gnashing.
Or vice versa.
