"Of course I did, Telemachus."

The Paladin's holy plate, still somehow resplendent despite being bathed in the blood and ichor of the Demon Lord's servants, grated slightly as he shifted uncomfortably. He spoke to the cloaked figure of his Ranger comrade.

"Boone, we're journeyed leagues. We have slain and saved across the breadth of a continent. We have done deeds that will live in song and saga for ages. All of this simply to reach this creature that you now name an," Telemachus' lips twitched as he spoke the phrase "overdramatic bitch."

"Sure as hell, Telly. And here's the what and why." Boone's hood fell back to reveal a close-cropped scalp over a haggard and stubbled face, one eye clearly taken in the receipt of a wicked scar, only to be replaced with a ghostly circle of black fire bisected by two perpendicular lines. He spat a stream of juice from the plug of matter he was chewing. The grass it landed on began to wither.

"You see, he ca'int do shit."

Boone held up his hand to silence Telemachus as he began to stutter a protest.

"Yeah yeah, Reaver of Souls, Bane of Mortals, whoop de doo. He has power, yes. But he ca'int come down here and do anything hisself 'cause the second he does the Lord of Light will step down from High Elysium and hammer-dick him back to the basement of Stygium. He is not free to act in the mortal planes. He needs servants to carry out his will, just as your god needs you, Telly."

"Yes, but servants he has, Boone." Telemachus gestureds broadly around at the blasted, pierced, hewn and bludgeoned corpses and the ominously rumbling ruin that had been their fortress.

"Sure thing, but ol' Darky over there can't make this plane his own until the hearts of all are turned to him." Booned rubs his eyes in exasperation. "And that ain't gettin ready to happen! Ever. What's his whole pitch, bud?"

"That he shall plunge the realms of mortality into everlasting darkness and despair, forever to corrupt and consume the souls of men." Telemachus replies.

"Right." Boone steps up and claps his hand on Telemachus' gleaming pauldron. "Who, precisely, in the shit wants that?" He spat another stream onto the weeds of the ritual courtyard, further blighting an already terrible locale. "Present corpse-any excluded, heh."

"That sorta black-hearted dumbassery only works for the sort of back asswards losers who think being nasty trash is a means to power, and that's most of nobody. Hell, I'm more of a bastard than most folks and it don't even sound good to me. Folks just want to have enough to get by and some extry for a hootenanny every so often. Tell em you're gonna piss all over that and gnaw their souls to boot? Hell. It ain't ever gonna work."

Telemachus stands dumbstruck. Then chuckles, his entire titanic frame shaking. In a moment a laugh of pure delight roars from his throat, the sound and mirth so pure it causes the sun to beam down a little brighter, and the weeds afflicted by Boone's venom to regain some of their vigor.

"By the Light, my friend, you're right!" Still thundering with humor, Telemachus turns toward the shadowy figure of the Demon Lord, and points a mocking finger. "Khord Malum, First Seed of Destruction, Ruiner of Faith, Acid of Oaths, Thorn of Discord, you are SUCH AN OVERDRAMATIC BITCH!"

As a devoutly religious person I disagree. Loved Small Gods. It's critique of organized religion is spot on, but it also shows the impact that a faithful man can have.

My wife and I gambled during sex a couple times. Thus our set of twins and our last baby due here in December.

... Still call it a win, though.