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- Defender Of The Faith Short Story
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Author | Rich Redman, James Wyatt |
---|---|
Genre | Role-playing game |
Publisher | Wizards of the Coast |
Publication date | May 2001 |
Media type | Print (Trade Paperback) |
Pages | 96 |
ISBN | 0-7869-1840-3 |
Defenders of the Faith: A Guidebook to Clerics and Paladins is an optional rulebook for the 3rd edition of Dungeons & Dragons, and notable for its trade paperback format.
Contents[edit]
The guidebook provides supplemental information for characters belonging to the Cleric and Paladin base classes. This book introduced Divine Feats, which are still used in version 3.5. This book also contained tips for creating and playing characters of the aforementioned class, as well as several prestige classes.
The title, Defender of the Faith, seems to refer to Sergeant Marx. Sergeant Marx often finds himself in situations where he is forced to defend his Jewish faith. The title is ironic because. Sergeant Marx finds himself in many dilemmas because he is trying to reconcile three roles-top. An online repository and discussion hub for short, free literature readily available for you to read right now! 'Defender of the Faith' is a 1959 short story by Philip Roth. In the opening pages, we meet Sergeant Nathan Marx, who has just returned from Germany to America 'only a few weeks after the fighting.
Publication history[edit]
The book was designed by Rich Redman and James Wyatt, and was published in 2001 by Wizards of the Coast. Cover art was by Brom, with interior art by Dennis Cramer.
Although it was not updated to 3.5 Edition, most of the book's prestige classes were reintroduced in the 3.5 supplemental sourcebook Complete Divine.
Reception[edit]
The reviewer from Pyramid found the advice on effectively playing clerics and paladins useful, even if it 'rarely goes beyond the basics information', and found the section on special paladin mounts to be one of the most interesting areas.[1]
See also[edit]
References[edit]
- ^http://www.sjgames.com/pyramid/sample.html?id=2289
External links[edit]
- Product page at wizards.com
Retrieved from 'https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Defenders_of_the_Faith_(Dungeons_%26_Dragons)&oldid=884970924'
In May of 1945, only a few weeks after the fighting had ended in Europe, I was rotated back to the States, where I spent the remainder of the war with a training company at Camp Crowder, Missouri. Along with the rest of the Ninth Army, I had been racing across Germany so swiftly during the late winter and spring that when I boarded the plane, I couldn’t believe its destination lay to the west. My mind might inform me otherwise, but there was an inertia of the spirit that told me we were flying to a new front, where we would disembark and continue our push eastward—eastward until we’d circled the globe, marching through villages along whose twisting, cobbled streets crowds of the enemy would watch us take possession of what, up till then, they’d considered their own. I had changed enough in two years not to mind the trembling of the old people, the crying of the very young, the uncertainty and fear in the eyes of the once arrogant. I had been fortunate enough to develop an infantryman’s heart, which, like his feet, at first aches and swells but finally grows horny enough for him to travel the weirdest paths without feeling a thing.
Captain Paul Barrett was my C.O. in Camp Crowder. The day I reported for duty, he came out of his office to shake my hand. He was short, gruff, and fiery, and—indoors or out—he wore his polished helmet liner pulled down to his little eyes. In Europe, he had received a battlefield commission and a serious chest wound, and he’d been returned to the States only a few months before. He spoke easily to me, and at the evening formation he introduced me to the troops. “Gentlemen,” he said, “Sergeant Thurston, as you know, is no longer with this company. Your new first sergeant is Sergeant Nathan Marx, here. He is a veteran of the European theatre, and consequently will expect to find a company of soldiers here, and not a company of boys.”
I sat up late in the orderly room that evening, trying halfheartedly to solve the riddle of duty rosters, personnel forms, and morning reports. The Charge of Quarters slept with his mouth open on a mattress on the floor. A trainee stood reading the next day’s duty roster, which was posted on the bulletin board just inside the screen door. It was a warm evening, and I could hear radios playing dance music over in the barracks. The trainee, who had been staring at me whenever he thought I wouldn’t notice, finally took a step in my direction.
“Hey, Sarge—we having a G.I. party tomorrow night?” he asked. A G.I. party is a barracks cleaning.
“You usually have them on Friday nights?” I asked him.
“Yes,” he said, and then he added, mysteriously, “That’s the whole thing.”
“Then you’ll have a G.I. party.”
He turned away, and I heard him mumbling. His shoulders were moving, and I wondered if he was crying.
“What’s your name, soldier?” I asked.
He turned, not crying at all. Instead, his green-speckled eyes, long and narrow, flashed like fish in the sun He walked over to me and sat on the edge of my desk. He reached out a hand. “Sheldon,” he said.
“Stand on your feet, Sheldon.”
Getting off the desk, he said, “Sheldon Grossbart.” He smiled at the familiarity into which he’d led me.
“You against cleaning the barracks Friday night, Grossbart?” I said. “Maybe we shouldn’t have G.I. parties. Maybe we should get a maid.” My tone startled me. I felt I sounded like every top sergeant I had ever known.
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“No, Sergeant.” He grew serious, but with a seriousness that seemed to be only the stifling of a smile. “It’s just—G.I. parties on Friday night, of all nights.”
He slipped up onto the corner of the desk again—not quite sitting, but not quite standing, either. He looked at me with those speckled eyes flashing, and then made a gesture with his hand. It was very slight—no more than a movement back and forth of the wrist—and yet it managed to exclude from our affairs everything else in the orderly room, to make the two of us the center of the world. It seemed, in fact, to exclude everything even about the two of us except our hearts.
“Sergeant Thurston was one thing,” he whispered, glancing at the sleeping C.Q., “but we thought that with you here things might be a little different.”
“We?”
“The Jewish personnel.”
“Why?” I asked, harshly. “What’s on your mind?” Whether I was still angry at the “Sheldon” business, or now at something else, I hadn’t time to tell, but clearly I was angry.
“We thought you—Marx, you know, like Karl Marx. The Marx Brothers. Those guys are all—M-a-r-x. Isn’t that how you spell it, Sergeant?”
“M-a-r-x.”
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“Fishbein said—” He stopped. “What I mean to say, Sergeant—” His face and neck were red, and his mouth moved but no words came out. In a moment, he raised himself to attention, gazing down at me. It was as though he had suddenly decided he could expect no more sympathy from me than from Thurston, the reason being that I was of Thurston’s faith, and not his. The young man had managed to confuse himself as to what my faith really was, but I felt no desire to straighten him out. Very simply, I didn’t like him.
When I did nothing but return his gaze, he spoke, in an altered tone. “You see, Sergeant,” he explained to me, “Friday nights, Jews are supposed to go to services.”
“Did Sergeant Thurston tell you you couldn’t go to them when there was a G.I. party?”
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“No.”
“Did he say you had to stay and scrub the floors?”
“No, Sergeant.”
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“Did the Captain say you had to stay and scrub the floors?”
“That isn’t it, Sergeant. It’s the other guys in the barracks.” He leaned toward me. “They think we’re goofing off. But we’re not. That’s when Jews go to services, Friday night. We have to.”
“Then go.”
“But the other guys make accusations. They have no right.”
“That’s not the Army’s problem, Grossbart. It’s a personal problem you’ll have to work out yourself.”
“But it’s un_fair_.”
I got up to leave. “There’s nothing I can do about it,” I said.
Grossbart stiffened and stood in front of me. “But this is a matter of religion, sir.”
“Sergeant,” I said.
“I mean ‘Sergeant,’ ” he said, almost snarling.
“Look, go see the chaplain. You want to see Captain Barrett, I’ll arrange an appointment.”
“No, no, I don’t want to make trouble, Sergeant. That’s the first thing they throw up to you. I just want my rights!”
“Damn it, Grossbart, stop whining. You have your rights. You can stay and scrub floors or you can go to shul—”
The smile swam in again. Spittle gleamed at the corners of his mouth. “You mean church, Sergeant.”
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“I mean shul, Grossbart!”
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I walked past him and went outside. Near me, I heard the scrunching of a guard’s boots on gravel. Beyond the lighted windows of the barracks, young men in T-shirts and fatigue pants were sitting on their bunks, polishing their rifles. Suddenly there was a light rustling behind me. I turned and saw Grossbart’s dark frame fleeing back to the barracks, racing to tell his Jewish friends that they were right—that, like Karl and Harpo, I was one of them.