A Shield Rather Than a Sword

This blog documents our Dungeons & Dragons campaigns. 

Our newest campaign generally follows the “Phandelver and Below: The Shattered Obelisk” book. 

I use this blog to record the sessions in narrative form. The entries are written after play, based on what I can remember happened at the table. All of it is handwritten, not AI generated. The images however are AI generated.

Disclaimer: our sessions are played with beers on the table to loosen up roleplay. This tends to impact record-keeping and memory. 

My character's name is Valandra, a half-elf Paladin of Helm. She is a deeply faithful, if not dogmatic follower of the Great Guard. The story is told strictly through her own heavily armored perspective. Expect a narrative filtered through a lens of unyielding zealotry, rigid prayers, noble arrogance, and the quiet, desperate doubts of a protector wondering if her god has averted His gaze, with all the bigotry, prayers and doubts that implies. 

 A Shield Rather Than a Sword 

Leaving early is the best decision she's made all day. Valandra pushes through the crowd. Some drunken men have less reverence for her than earlier that evening when they entered the Stonehill Inn. Returning Sildar Hallwinter, bruised but in one piece, is the talk of town. She and her companions have liberated him from a mean bunch of goblins. All that plus the fact that Sildar is paying the drinks tonight, has lured in half the population. The good half, of course.

Still, the threat of a slap with one of the metal gauntlets the paladin is carrying is a strong enough argument to step aside and make room. And to reconsider placing a hand strategically on her body. She sighs. A few firm steps more and she reaches the corner and finds her way out of the central hall of the inn. “Helm’s light, this heat and smell are killing me.”

On the stairs she encounters the barmaid and a halfling man, tucking in his shirt. “Can you bring a wash tub with clean warm water to my room?” She asks, almost orders, and hands her a coin: “Directly, and truly clean!” “Please.” She adds in afterthought, climbing the stairs. Whether it was the late politeness, the copper, or her appearance, clad in blood-stained armour, the maid arrives moments later and places the tub in her room. 

After the door closes, Valandra stands up out of the chair where she had taken off her boots. She grins as she takes up the old wooden construct: “You're a tough old one, aren't you? First you had to support me, now I need you to guard the door.” She installs it in front of the door and tilts it, wedging its backrest tight. Additionally she shoves the ramshackly looking latch in place: “The two of you should offer me at least enough time, Helm’s light guides the watch.”

Turning her back to the door, she slides her hands into the small space between her armour and her neck. First her right hand, then her left, she needs to wiggle her fingers towards the levers inside. One click on the  left, then one on the right, before a strange dance begins. The paladin takes small steps backwards, dropping off pieces of her armour, placing these precisely and softly on the ground with each step. It’s a practice she has grown familiar with; a ritual, a benediction to Helm after a fight. “Helm, the Watcher, I stand before you, bloodied but unbroken, Your justice wrought in steel and sacrifice.”

The deep red padded gambeson comes off much more easily. She inspects the wounds and bruises on her arms. Draws contours around them with her index fingers, ending with the one not completely closed on her left elbow. From there her hands move towards her tunic. The soft touch of the silk brings back the memories of her last visit to her mother. Walking up the circling stairs towards the knight’s room towards the knight’s room. The light of the sun at the family crest above the door. A sword and a shield. Vigilate Deo Confidentes. Her mother’s voice as she entered: “Of my four, for you I had some hopes, but even my little girl wants to follow in her father's footsteps!” 

Her mother had placed her hand gently on Valandra’s lips, interrupting her reply: “Hush! Somehow I have accepted it, and it’s not like marrying you off would have saved a thing!” The old lady walked her over to one of the wooden crates that had invaded the family estate. “So I decided to use your dowry on this. In all letters the abbot sent me (yes, I did a little spying on you. Same goes for your brothers!), he tells me you're not the most talented or vigorous, but certainly the most fanatic and tenacious, just like your father.” “That is unfair! And I did complete the stages...as I will in avenging father!” “And your relentless pursuit of retribution is the legacy granted to you by my family. Alas." Taking her by the arm, Valandra’s mother had calmed her down. “At least, allow me to help keep you safe. And to look like the Brightblade you are!” With that she pulled away the sheet that lay on top, revealing the most beautiful armour. 

“Gnomish mechanism, dwarven smithing, elven steel, paid with human gold,” she whispers to herself. “I do remember and will never forget, mother.” She steps out of her undergarments into the washtub. The warmth of the water biting into her toes. Using the wooden bowl that came with the tub, she pours water over herself for a while, before she lowers herself, somehow folding her body into the tub. 

Sitting in the tub, she overthinks the events of the past days, the fights, the rescue of the human. Her companions; the monk and the assassin, leading and guiding them, fighting well; the bard, trying to forge friendships between them, even with her. And he was limitless in that! Blood of Brightblade! He explicitly made a pass on her just a few moments ago! She had waved it off, curtly and formal as possible, checking if and how the two elf men would react. But Ash’tar and Nox did not seem to be interested in any manner in their small talk; probably had not even noticed. And Roux had not been discouraged at all by her rejection. Quite the contrary. So it had been time to leave. We do not flee. We reposition.

Besides her companions, above all of this, she has to consider her relationship with Helm. Was the Great Watcher trying to tell her something? Testing her with this group of “down-by-the-ground” untrustables? Denying her magical support in the fight, granting them when healing her teammates. She feels that despite everything, she has made an impression, is accepted by ‘her’ men. Not because she was the best and most ferocious fighter, but precisely because she was not that. Curing wounds, caring for her comrades have proven far more valuable. “I can be a shield rather than a sword. Is that what you wanted to show me?” 

The loud noise of stomping and cheering wakes her up. Unmistakably the party downstairs has reached a new height. The cold of the water in the tub makes her shiver. “Justice’s teeth! This is cold!” Rubbing off the water with the ragged (but clean!) towel warms her up a bit. She dresses, but goes without the armour, and bare footed. Silently and without being noticed she manages to leave the inn and makes it (once more) to the Shrine of Luck.

“Forgive me goddess, but I’ve come to your sanctum again. Grant me leave to perform a rite here.” Valandra speaks to the statue of Tymora on entering, then kneels down. “Helm, the Vigilant. The darkness recoiled before your light today. I've come here to speak my oath, choosing my path.” She swallows, then continues: “I was determined to avenge my father’s death and in doing so honor You. However, You’ve shown me a higher purpose: to be the shield first, and the blade when needed! A duty to all who are vulnerable, not just those who wronged my father and my family.” A small pause, followed by: “And in doing so, I don’t betray my father’s legacy but live up to it! Please accept me and my choice!”

Valandra reciting the Oath. Image generated by AI.

In the dark center of Phandalin, the litany of the Oath of Devotion can be heard recited in a sanctum dedicated to Tymora. After she finishes, Valandra stands up, feeling refreshed, calm. She pauses in front of the offering bowl, her hand trembling when searching for her purse. A tear falls from her wet face, landing in the bowl with a clatter. She looks down, finds a Chrysoprase lying in the offering bowl. “Thank you for your gift, Paladin. A daring choice, a gamble even, you made. I hold no grudge for your use of my territory. Changes are afoot that you’ll keep your vow, Paladin... but why so serious about it?” This time the voice feels like a warm breeze around her. And till her dying days Valandra will claim that after she turned around she saw a faerie dragon flying away.

Bolstered and inspired, she walks back towards the inn to find it almost empty. Making her way to her room, she hears noises and voices undeniably caused by certain individuals and activity. Grinning, she shakes her head and enters her room, closes the door, not bothering to lock it this time. 

A dialog with the Raven

Here we are again. Same inn, same room, same routine—different reflection.

Today was another big day. We got out of that nasty cave and found Sildar alive to boot!

Not before Roux got caught in a trap, though. He fell for the classic one: a net that sprang upward, lifting him ten to fifteen feet off the ground. It made me chuckle a little, but I might—or might not—have been the root cause of his predicament. Let's leave it at that. Luckily, cutting the rope meant he came down as swiftly as he went up. Even luckier for Roux, Valandra caught him in her arms as he fell. I guess we're fortunate he's not a troll or an ogre.

Not all was laughter, though.

I watched Roux come close to death. Don't get me wrong—I was used to seeing people die, and even some of my clan members didn't survive our harsh battles. But this one felt different. It felt... closer.

I struck one of the goblins attacking Roux, but I couldn't stop him. The other one—a larger, more commanding creature—rushed in and made sure to deliver the final blow. I answered by taking down the goblins in a flurry of strikes, making sure they stayed down.

Once more, Valandra saved the day. She patched Roux up as best she could, given the circumstances.

I saw a vision. Brief, but effective. Fleeting, yet impactful.

I found myself standing in Roux's place, saved from the brink of extinction. Maybe that's why this one felt so close.

This Valandra lady is precious. We must protect her at all costs.

Not even an hour into my reflective session, I was abruptly interrupted by the faded, somewhat crackling voice of a woman.

"You did well, my servant."

I sprang to my feet and looked around, but saw no one. Everything was peaceful. The windows and doors were closed, and I could hear the others snoring nearby.

"Another trick by Roux?" I wondered.

After all, he had asked me to swallow the image of some sort of butcher ghost, claiming it would grant me benefits in combat. I obliged, but I've yet to see any benefit.

"Do not fear, my child," the voice spoke again.

I searched the room once more, but again found no one.

"I'm not here in person, but I will always be with you in spirit," the voice whispered.

The words were spoken with a coldness that should have unsettled me, yet somehow they warmed my heart.

"Thank you for the memories today. They are precious."

And with that, the voice was gone.

I still don't know whether I was dreaming. Perhaps it was an illusion. Perhaps my mind was playing tricks on me.

Who is she? Where does she come from? How can she speak to me when I cannot even see her?

So many questions...

No time to dwell on them, though.

My right hand feels exceptionally cold, while my left feels unusually warm. It is an incredible sensation, though it unsettles me. They almost feel numb. The feeling isn't constant, either. It comes in pulses, some stronger than others.

I've been staring at my hands for nearly thirty minutes now.

When the others wake, I'll tell them. Maybe Valandra knows more. She seems knowledgeable.

We have ourselves a dwarf to find.

A mystery to solve.

Oh, and a ruffian to capture.

Survival is hard, and I learn every day.

I will not stop until survival becomes easy.

 

Cheers at Night, Silence at Dawn

 This blog documents our Dungeons & Dragons campaigns. 

Our newest campaign generally follows the “Phandelver and Below: The Shattered Obelisk” book.  

I use this blog to record the sessions in narrative form. The entries are written after play, based on what I can remember happened at the table. Disclaimer: our sessions are played with beers on the table to loosen up roleplay. This tends to impact record-keeping and memory. 

My character is Roux Illomen, a Chthonic tiefling spirit medium who began as a fraud and ended up genuinely haunted. He survives on charm, bad judgment, and the ability to run when necessary. He is not a hero. He lies, avoids responsibility, and has a talent for making powerful enemies. The story is told from his perspective, with all the bias, excuses, and gallows humor that implies.

The story below describes our second DnD session of the new campaign.

================================== 

Valandra had been right; we were indeed just a few hours from Phandalin when the ambush took place. She had made that estimate when we got on the horses. But that had been the last thing she said since. I started to ponder this group of strangers in whose company I’d found myself. I call myself the Voice of the Elder Dead. On behalf of the dead, I can confirm they are chattier than this bunch. My companions come alive in a fight, but outside of danger they are wallflowers.

Valandra, with her flaming hair, comes across as a woman of passion. But she is as closed off as a clam; she must have come from a convent.

Nox is the mysterious one; I can’t figure him out—not because he is complex, but because he doesn’t give anything away. All business.

Ash’tar always seems to carry some weight. I’m not certain whether it’s due to where he came from or that strange shadow hanging around him. At least he talked when spoken to. Maybe he was just shy.

As we rode closer, Phandalin came into view as a rough cluster of low wooden buildings. No walls or palisades, no towers—just simple structures, some with thatched roofs, and smoke rising from cook fires. This was a frontier town in all its simplicity and hardship. Neverwinter and its comforts seemed far away.

Locals paused to watch us approach, hands on tools, eyes cautious but not afraid. This was a town that expected trouble and stayed anyway.

We rode past a woman working a patch of land used to grow vegetables. She looked at us with suspicion. I’d seen that look before; tieflings get it all the time.

“Good day, fair lady. We are here from Neverwinter to bring supplies. We were attacked just a few miles from here by a band of goblins. But no worries; my brave companions and I dispatched those brigands with ease. We’ll be going back soon and rid these lands of the rest of them.” Let her chew on that.

The yokel was not impressed. She spat on the ground and kept eyeing us as we passed.

As none of us had been here before, we needed to ask for directions to Barthen’s Provisions. As it turned out, it was quite simple. New Phandalin had been built on the ruins of old Phandalin. Further into town, there were a few structures using stone scavenged from those ruins. Barthen’s stood solid and unadorned near the road, doors open, crates stacked outside.

I’d been comfortable in the saddle, but the moment my feet hit the ground, my knees buckled and I nearly got a face full of sand. That earned a few laughs from my “friends.” Sure—say nothing all day, but laugh at my expense.

Brushing dust from my knees and hands, I walked into the store. Valandra followed close behind; I was fairly sure it wasn’t a vote of confidence. Ash’tar and Nox at least held back and let me do the talking.

A woman stepped forward. “Can I help you?” she asked. Neutral. Not unfriendly. Not warm either. I gestured to the cart. “We’re delivering supplies. Contracted.”

Her eyes flicked to the wagon frame, then to the crates. “By whom?”

“Gundren Rockseeker,” I said. “We have papers. Signed.”

That broke something in her composure—confusion with a hint of concern. “He hasn’t been here,” she said slowly. “He usually comes ahead of this shipment.”

Valandra stepped in. “We were delayed. By goblins.”

That earned full attention. “And Gundren?” the woman asked at once.

“Taken,” Valandra replied. “We believe alive. Tracks led off the road.”

The woman closed her eyes briefly, then opened them and nodded once, decisive. “I’m Elmina Barthen. This is my business.” She looked at the cart again, then at me. “Let me see the contract.”

“We were promised ten gold each,” Ash’tar added.

Valandra produced the folded parchment. Elmina read it carefully, lips moving as she checked quantities, marks, and signatures.

“All right,” she said at last. “This is all in order.” She raised her voice. “Ander! Thistle! Get out here.”

As the clerks began unloading, Elmina turned back to us.

“Elmina, what of Gundren’s brothers? Are they here? Can they help us get him back?” I asked.

“They’re out in the mountains somewhere—at least a week or two, I reckon. They should be back any day now.”

Once the last crate was inside, Elmina went to a small lockbox and counted coins deliberately. Four neat stacks of ten gold pieces sat on the counter.

“You fulfilled your end of the contract,” she said. “And if you’re going after Gundren… thank you.”

Valandra accepted the coin but didn’t pocket it. “I need weapons. And a place to pray.”

Elmina shook her head. “I don’t sell weapons—just supplies. As for prayer, there’s a small shrine near the square. It’s… simple. But it’s tended.”

“That will suffice,” Valandra said.

My stomach let out a deep gurgle, reminding me that my body had been put through the ringer and hadn’t had anything decent to eat. “Where can we get food?”

“The Stonehill Inn,” Elmina replied. “Toblen runs it. Tell him why you’re here and that I sent you. He’ll take good care of you.”

“Can you store Gundren’s oxen and cart? We need to be fast if we’re going to get him back.”

“No problem.” Elmina took the reins herself, shoulders settling as responsibility fully transferred. “Bring him back,” she said quietly.

The men turned toward the Stonehill Inn. Valandra left for the shrine, which was fine. It wasn’t as though anyone was missing out on great banter and stories without her.

When we stepped into the inn, voices hushed and heads turned. Ashen-faced elves and tieflings were a rarity in this frontier town. A grey-haired man with a beard and a few long strands combed over a mostly bald pate approached us. The apron over his round belly marked him clearly as the innkeeper.

“Good day, gentlemen,” he said, wringing his bony hands. “I’m Toblen, the innkeeper. How may I serve you?”

“Elmina sent us,” Ash’tar offered. “She said we could get food here.”

“We brought Phandalin its much-needed supplies,” I added, “and slew goblins just to get here.”

“Welcome, welcome. Fine gentlemen. Please take a seat—anywhere it’s free.” He waved at a few empty tables.

Talk resumed. It seemed they’d expected trouble, and when it didn’t come, their interest evaporated.

We ordered a round of wine. Nox remained enigmatic. Ash’tar was at least talkative when prodded. He’d been a bare-knuckle fighter in some of the seedier parts of Neverwinter. I may have visited those fights and placed a bet in my youth, but I’d never seen this elf fight.

I noticed Valandra entering the inn before she noticed us. Her armor announced her before her face did. She cut through the tavern like she had a broomstick shoved up her back—wound tight, jaw set, eyes already measuring exits. As natural as she’d looked fighting goblins, here she seemed moments from flight.

I waved her over, deliberately casual, sliding a chair back to make her feel welcome. If anyone needed a drink, it was her, so I poured wine before she could object.

“I still owe you a drink,” I said, with my most winning grin.

It only made her bristle. These religious types are prickly. I gave her a wink to test the limits of her disapproval. She flushed, scowled, but accepted the wine anyway. Good.

We ordered food, which I said I’d pay for. As far as I could tell, it still hung in the balance whether the others would join me in going after Gundren and Sildar. A gesture of good faith couldn’t hurt.

“So,” I said, “we eat, then we go back and find the others.”

The others disagreed. Nox argued goblins would use the darkness to swarm us. Ash’tar agreed and added that we shouldn’t give the enemy any advantage.

Valandra added my idea to the growing list of my inadequacies. She just frowned.

I mulled it over. Goblins might outnumber us, but we were in a town. I pulled back my chair, stepped onto it, then onto the table, boots thumping for effect. Silence came faster than expected.

“We are new to Phandalin,” I said. “It’s a fine town, but today we had to fight through vermin to reach it. Vermin who took one of our own—Gundren Rockseeker. A friend of mine, and I’m sure many of you know him as well.”

I let that sink in, making eye contact.

“Tomorrow, my brave friends and I”—I gestured to them—“will ride out and deal with these goblins. We intend to bring Gundren back. There will be many goblins, and other vermin besides. So we ask you to lend us your strength and your courage. We ride at sunrise.”

“Are you with us?”

The room erupted. Miners clapped. Mugs of ale were raised.

As I stepped down, men slapped my shoulders. I caught Valandra’s eye. She looked tired, annoyed, and convinced I was an idiot.

“That was a great speech,” Ash’tar said, a little uncomfortable.

“No one will be there,” Valandra said with scorn.

“What she said,” Nox added.

“We’ll see,” I countered. “I see hard, brave folk in this town. They’ll help.”

“Everyone here is chasing riches,” Valandra replied. “You can’t find riches if you’re dead. No one will show up. Trust me.”

Toblen interrupted. “So you’ll stay the night, yes? How many rooms would you like? Good rooms. I’d rather rent them to you fine folk than to those Redbrand ruffians. They cause nothing but trouble.”

He licked his lips, calculating.

“If you stay in my rooms, they can’t. They bring nothing but trouble.”

He waited. No one knew what he meant.

“Who are these Redbrands?” Ash’tar asked. He and Nox seemed a little too interested.

That gave Toblen confidence.

“The Redbrands are a gang here in town. Their leader calls himself Glasstaff. Thugs. They control the streets, intimidate farmers and merchants, shake people down for protection money, and commit violence while our weak townmaster does nothing. The only place they don’t bother is the Miner’s Exchange. They fight back.”

“So maybe you could…” He let it hang.

I cut in. “We’ll take the rooms. Tomorrow we ride at sunrise. Goblins first. Then we come back.”

The others exchanged looks but didn’t object. I breathed a sigh of relief—internally.

The next morning, the town pretended not to see us leave. I noticed every shuttered window, every turned back. As we rode out, Valandra met my gaze and gave me a grin.

See. My charm was getting to her. A reaction at last. We’ll see where it leads.