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.
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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.
