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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!”
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| 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.
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