Like a Banner in the Rain

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.

Like a Banner in the Rain 

The woman drapes herself over Valandra like a mantle, one woven from costly cloth, by the looks of it. For minutes she stays there, sobbing and stammering softly, words lost to gloom. Somehow, Valandra manages to sheathe her warhammer in its belt hook, then places her arm around the lady. “Hush, you’re safe now with us. Helm will protect you.” The lady can only cry, no conversation, no answers. Gently steering, Valandra tries to protect the lady’s dress from the dirt and splatter on her armour, then realises that her clothes have been ruined before now; buttons and decorations have been torn off. Valandra clenches her fist, praying to Helm that the torn dress was the only violence the woman had suffered.“By Helm’s hammer, we will bring justice to them.”

Another door is opened and a little boy and girl run out, grabbing the lady. “Mother!”. The woman embraces the kids, together they collapse on the floor. ‘Like a banner in the rain,’ Valandra ponders. Images of her own mother, grieving for her father, come to her mind. Her brothers, young men, standing around, sometimes whispering amongst themselves. Her mother was sitting in her chair, next to the empty one.

Her brothers had left, one by one, wearing armour and the shield with the Lion’s head proudly. Their farewells came with whispers and promises of vengeance, head shakes and tears of her mother, a last pat on Valandra’s head. The last time their eyes met, the last wink at her by her youngest brother. Still too young to understand what was happening, Valandra only knew that her father would not come home. And that her brothers had to move out, for the house was not safe any longer.

The last gurgle of a guard as his throat is slit by Nox takes Valandra back to this cellar. A feeling of powerlessness and grief tries to overwhelm her, in her head she starts reciting to fight it off: ‘I am the wall that does not fall. I am the shield that does not yield.’ Biting her tongue keeps her from crying, that is out of the question. Her companions would see her weakness! She breathes in deeply, taking in the stink of blood. Habit takes over. She checks the surroundings; no movement, no sound, no threats. Her sweep of the room lands on the boy’s watery, petrified eyes.

Valandra kneels next to the woman: “Is that your boy?” “Yes. They took us here after they killed my husband,” the woman whispers. “And who was your husband?” “Thel Dendrar, they killed him and took us.” ”You’re safe now, Helm watches over you. Do you know how many there are?” “No, here there were the same ugly faces every day. When they took us, they were masked. They were all Redbrands!” The woman now looks her in the face: “You’re not from around, are you?” “No, I’m not. My family used to live in Neverwinter.” “Mine too, I’m Mirna Dendrar, what’s your name?” The conversation that follows is one of families and marriages, heritages and stature as if the two women are meeting at a ball. 

A loud cough makes Valandra look up, finding three bloodied men staring at them. “This is Mirna Dendrar, she and her kids were taken prisoner some days ago”, she says while standing up. “The Redbrands are behind this, their leader is a powerful wizard, but he’s probably not here.” “All of that, and the latest ins and outs of Phandalin.” Roux remarks and Valandra cuts in on him before he can add more: “First thing, we need to bring them back to the inn, safely, by the Oath of the Vigil.“ 

Valandra sheds a tear. (AI generated)

Roux frowns. Nox looks over the room. Ash’tar shakes his head, points at the door at the far side, puts a lid on the discussion: “Let’s first clear this place and check that door, make sure we have no one at our back when we return!” Valandra nods, her grip tightening on the hammer. ‘Helm does not turn his back on the wolf in the fold.’ The companions move over to the still unopened door at the far side. After a deep breath, Valandra decides to follow them, and finds herself caressing the hair of the girl. Looking down, she catches the gaze of the little one and winks at her. A single tear, only noticed by the girl, leaves her left eye as the paladin grabs for her hammer. She takes up her position in front of Roux while Ash’tar and Nox work the door, whispering to herself:  ‘And you will know Helm is the Watcher when I bring His judgment upon you.’

A Guard of the Pure and Unpure

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 Guard of the Pure and Unpure

Waiting is not hard. Guardians wait. Guards wait. Waiting on a friend or companion costs even less. But waiting on a fool recovering of his own folly? That tests even Helm’s patience!  Biding her time vacantly because that occultist is recovering from a hangover was one thing. Waiting on him to recover of something he picked up by picking up the barmaid was something else. Valandra sighs, looks through her eyelashes, sees Nox, the assassin, sitting quietly on the other side of the room. 

“If someone looks through the small window into the guest room of the inn,  they would see a scene fit for the card of Balance.”, she thinks, observing Nox. “A dark assassin on one side, the shining knight on the other. Helm’s light, what a sight we make! Never would have imagined to fight next to such a creature. A shield may stand beside a blade it does not trust, if the cause is just. “ For a second their eyes meet, then Nox continues his elaborate cleaning of his fingernails with a knife. Valandra restarts reciting in her head: “By Helm’s light, I stand vigilant. By the Watcher’s gaze, I do not falter.”

“He took my medicine, should be downstairs shortly!”  Ash’tar announces to the two companions, who make a point of ignoring his statement. “By the way, he claims that you have poisoned him, my dear friend.” The accused Drow remains silent, instead Valandra reacts: “That makes two of you, by Helm’s light, that medicine of yours is horse dung!” “It’s not always the shiniest of shields that offers protection, as Helm teaches us”, Ash’tar ripostes with a smile. The paladin looks at her two companions, thinks about the third one she's still waiting for and concludes that it's not clear who of these men is the most annoying, but all of them are. She closes her eyes: “A guard shall protect the pure and the unpure..”

Valandra walking in Phandalin. (Image is AI generated)

More than an hour later the unpure has finally joined them, and after some coffee Roux dominates the conversation like always. Together with Ash’tar he shuffles from table to table, bragging about their heroic exploits and gathering rumors and clues.  Once outside, at the town square, Valandra breathes in deeply. The smell of heated iron reminds her of happier, less complicated, times. As a novice, working as an assistant in the blacksmith of the abbey. Clear tasks, clear commands, clear hierarchy. Not this bartering and hassling with those pesky commoners. Sure they want to help save Gundren; but before doing so this or that needs to be arranged, and while you’re at it, could you make short work of this or that wrong do’er? And sure, we want to pay you if you help us get rid of the Red Brands, but we’re not sure where they are, who they are, not sure how to spot them by any means. But still we want you to fight them. 

The only one who made any sense to Valandra was sister Garaele, who wants assistance in fighting an evil spirit, but her companions are not that keen on that one. They are negotiating, blending in, making deals with the townfolk. Then drag her along, apparently for a just cause. By the Watcher’s shield, this place is annoying!

Visiting the Shrine of Luck together with her companions feels uncanny to Valandra. She has not told anyone about her nightly visit, let alone about her Oath and choice of path. Fortunately nobody has seen her leave the tavern or visit this sanctum. Even Sister Garaele, the reason for their visit, has no idea of her encounters with Tymora. The sister turns out not to be involved in the town's politics, instead she has a need for support in a whole different department: Her nightly explorations for arcane artefacts brought her in contact with what she calls a banshee. Before anyone else could answer, Valandra had already agreed. Leaving her companions frowning; more urgent and above all more rewarding matters are waiting. “Three health potions is no reward!”

Still Ash’tar joins her when she kneels in front of the shrine. They then drop some coins as offerings before leaving. “That’s not the way you offer to Tymora!”, Roux makes a point of throwing his coins into the offering bowl like he would throw them on a gambling mat: “This is how the goddess of Luck wants to receive her gifts: As a gamble!” No warm glow, nor whisperings this time. The goddess of luck remains blind to them.  “The hammer does not strike by chance!” 

“Even so, we all missed, did not we, Valandra. Perhaps for the best, that bowl would not have a chance against your hammer!” The occultist smirks and waves them over: “Come my friends! Let’s find us some new friends in the Sleeping Giant!” 

With a short nod Valandra greets the Shrine of Luck and trails after the two palavering men. She spits on the sand, looks sideways, to find Nox right next to her, uncomfortably close for an assassin. "By the Watcher’s gaze, have you all been sent to test me?” There follows no answer to her question. 

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

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. 

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.

 

The Stench of Luck

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. 

The Stench of Luck

Keeping her focus on praying was hard enough without the whispers of the children, Valandra feels. Having to use a sanctuary of a different god does not help either. Yet the paladin has an urgent need for endorsement, consolation.She kneels before the shrine, eyes closed, head resting on clenched fist, murmuring prayers: "Helm, let your light pierce this darkness.A shield does not exist to protect its bearer, but those who stand behind it. Guide me, Watcher..." 

Valandra at the Shrine (AI generated)

A flicker of irritation rises in her chest, directed at the noise, at the shrine, at herself. Has the Watcher turned His gaze from her? Has she failed some unseen test? Has the Great Guard given up on her? No. The Watcher does not abandon. The fault must lie with the supplicant.  "Guide me, Watcher. Show me the path..." Her prayers seem to no avail, no guidance nor counsel reaches her.

She stands up, salutes the little statue of Tymora, and drops a small coin on the offerings table: “Thank you for your hospitality, goddess. The Watcher remains silent, but I do appreciate your hospitality.” “Why not let luck decide your fate, Paladin? It could be... fun." The voice feels like a cold chill around her neck, like fingers stroking her ponytailed hair . 

She spins as fast as armor allows, only to find a cluster of urchins. Faces staring at her, greedy, fearful, a few in awe. Some brave ones had even made it into the small building, the paladin’s luggage too tempting a target. “Away! Out!” Valandra barks at them, grateful to have a subject for her anger and frustrations. She sees the little creeps scatter: “Like dire rats before the hammer.” She lets out a sigh of relief, yet seeing how thin they were leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

Before leaving the shrine of Luck, Valandra sniffs in the damp air inside, the faint scent of mildew. Memories of her bedroom in a convent far away and long ago fill her mind.The voice of the abbess reciting prayers, the warm feeling of belonging. ”The stench of luck..Let your light burn brighter than this shrine! Hope is no substitute for vigilance."..." 

She spots an inn where a familiar cart and horses are parked upfront. Walking over, she replays the fight with the goblins in her head. “It was an honorable duel.The assassin fought valiantly and skillfully and faced our opponents openly. Even the jester added to the fight. The priest stayed calm and played his part. Helm watched over us.” 

Without noticing she reaches the entrance of the tavern. A diverse group of workers, probably miners, leaving the inn, blocks her way, Customarily her right hand lands on the warhammer hanging from the baldrick. “You're with those men, right? The goblin killers, they’re inside!” The greeting catches Valandra by surprise. The miners step out of her way, holding the door open for her to enter. “Helm’s light be upon you as well." She answers, or so do her vocal cords by themselves, years of training making them speak for her. ‘This is not Neverwinter’ and ‘Stay alert, you’re a guard!’ she yells to herself. 

Inside the crowd, mostly dwarfs and humans,behaves with surprising politeness. ‘Commoners pretending to be at court in a tavern. Miners pretending to be priests, what kind of place is this?’ Her questions remain unanswered as she hears her name. 

At a table nearby sit her companions, Roux, the occultist,is waving her over.  As Valandra approaches he gestures her towards an empty chair, ‘unintentionally’ next to him. Perhaps a bit too warm a welcome, but at least she feels accepted by the men now. “Still owe you one, my lady” Roux hands her a glass of wine. Followed by a series of compliments, insults hidden within compliments and flirting that fuel her embarrassment and anger likewise. The good thing is that at least now her resentment is aimed at someone else. A proper target.

The arrival of food, and more beer and wine, ends conversations and flirtations. The inn’s menu is basic and decent, and fairly priced. So much that Roux pays for the whole group when the bill arrives. By then other visitors and locals have joined their table. And is their story of fighting off a few, at least six, could be more than ten, goblins and finding the horses the highlight of the evening. 

Making sure she's out of the spotlight but within hearing range, Valandra cleans and polishes parts of her armour. Stories and rumours float over the table like the mating flight of dragons. “Lots of huffing and puffing and the only result is hot air!”  She concentrates on a dent in her left gauntlet. A bite mark of a goblin? She should jump up and shout, show the scratch in the metal and claim there were wolves too! 

But another figure is already standing.on table,and has  claimed the floor! “We have to find Gundren! They must have been taken by the goblins! We know where they are. Together we can save him!”Roux (‘Who else?’) gives  the performance of a lifetime! The crowd is cheering and beating their jugs on the tables. “Are you with us?” The occultist looks around, pointing at his companions: “Tomorrow at sunrise we will ride out to free Gundren and Silmar!” 

Valandra shakes her head at him, but one looks at her other two companions, Nox and Ashtar, tells her they are already on his side: “He should have been a performer instead of an occultist, by the Watcher’s shield!” As she looks up, Roux catches her stare: “Will you help me, my friend?” “Helm’s light! Yes! And leave me be.” She waves him off, and off he goes, turning back towards the mob gathered around their table. “Will you help me, my friends? Ride with us tomorrow morning! Free our friends, get rid of those pesky goblins!” A roar erupts, people toast and drink, drink and toast. 

The next morning, four lone figures are harnessing three ramshackle horses in silence. Ashtar priest joins Valandra, riding double, on Silmar’s horse. As they ride off through town, people hide or pretend to not notice them. Once more Roux’ and Valandra’s eyes meet: “Fame is a shadow that fades with the setting sun. Helm’s light is eternal." !” Her moral is met with a grin: “We’re as popular as your god, paladin!”