Threshold: Jane's Story (Patreon)

Over the last week a story has been playing out on the #Story channel of the Threshold Discord. At key points, patrons had the opportunity to influence the story. Would Jane try to deceive the Pasha? What questions would she ask? Now that the story is complete, I want to share it for patrons who don't use Discord. But this was another experiment, so I'm adding a poll to see if this is something I should continue. I like it as a way for all patrons to have a chance to participate in the story, but I don't know if it's something you all want to see. So, let me know! Any future stories would likely involve single characters; the point is to play out narrowly focused scenes that are less suited to the live sessions. 

But for now, here's the story of Three-Widow Jane and the Pasha. 

Three-Widow Jane's most prized possession is her battered metal flask. The extradimensional space within the flask has been her personal sanctuary for the last few years—a boon for her smuggling career, but also a comforting home for someone who's always on the move. It's not the most inviting foundation; the walls are windowless steel, resembling the flask itself. But it's a comfortable temperature, and over the years Jane has added some personal touches. There's an assortment of sacks and boxes stacked piled against one wall, remnants from Jane's smuggling days. Everbright lanterns provide illumination, and can be shuttered when necessary. There's no bed, but Jane has a comfortable bedroll with the hide of a ghost tiger spread out as a pad.

Jane never could find a way to bring furniture into the flask, so it’s a surprise to find a man sitting at a table when she drops in. It’s an elegant ebony card table, with flame patterns inlaid in brass. The man at the table is dressed in a black leather duster with glittering brass buttons. He has a face any Phiarlan actor would kill for. His dark skin gleams as if oiled, and beneath the wide brim of his hat, his eyes burn like coals.

“I wasn’t sure you’d show,” Jane says, approaching the table. She’s only met the man once before, on the fateful night she won his flask and wand. “Pasha, isn’t it?”

“You remember!” The man smiles, revealing perfect teeth. “Though that’s my title, not my name. But it will suffice for now. Why don’t you join me?” He has a deck of cards in his hand, and he riffles them dramatically. “I thought we might play a game.”

Jane takes a seat in the chair that is suddenly waiting for her. “What’s the game?”

“As I recall, we share a fondness for Thrones.” The Pasha smiles as he shuffles the gilded cards. “How about the Cyran River?”

“Mourning rules?” Since the Mourning, some people play the Cyran games with the values reversed—so a two is worth more than a King.

The Pasha grins. “Of course. Now, as for the starting stakes; you have asked me for information. That is what I bring to the table. As for you… To begin with, I want my wand back.”

Before the Pasha can even blink his burning eyes, the wand of Fernian ash is in Jane’s hand and leveled at his head. Mighty and enigmatic as he is, the Pasha can’t help but flinch; Jane smiles as she twirls the wand and sets it on the table. “This wand, an opening bet? Not likely. As I recall, we went through more mundane stakes before you risked your wand. I want information, yes. If you’re not interested in gold, then how about… Favors? Three favors from me, against three questions from you.”

The Pasha’s eyes gleam—literally. “Acc—”

Jane cuts him off. “Not so fast. Those favors can’t involve your flask or your wand in any way. Not giving them to you, not giving them to anyone. We’re talking simple services, and I decide how to carry them out.”

The Pasha does a good impersonation of looking offended. “Please, I would never stoop so low. I accept your terms. Shall we begin?”

The first round goes poorly. It’s an unusual deck; five suits, just as Jane is used to, but rather than the sovereigns of the Five Nations it seems to be based on the rulers of the planes. Jane begins with the King and Queen of Fire—the King bearing a remarkable resemblance to the Pasha, aside from having burning red skin and horns—which would be a fine hand if they weren’t playing Mourning rules. She doesn’t waste her time on a losing hand.

“One favor for me,” the Pasha says smugly. “And now—”

“Not so fast.” Jane snatches the deck. “I believe it’s my deal.”

“Let’s change the game,” Jane says. “Three card boast. Queens wild.”

“And the King of Fire.”

Jane nods, and allows the Pasha to cut the deck. She deals three cards down to each player. Her opponent glances at his cards and the slightest smile touches his lips… Though from their previous encounter, Jane knows this is likely a bluff. Jane doesn’t look at her cards.

“A favor against a question as our starting stakes,” Jane says. “And I raise my third favor.”

“My second question.”

Jane places the wand of Fernian ash on the table, her cards untouched.

The Pasha’s eyes smolder in the shadows. “My third question.”

Jane points a finger to the air, gesturing to indicate the Flask itself. The Pasha hesitates for a moment. Then he says “Fire. Flames that burn your foes and quicken your spirit.”

Jane nods, and the Pasha reveals his cards. The King, Queen, and Knight of Fernia. He smiles broadly, but his smile fades as Jane reveals her cards: Shadows, Fey, Ice—three queens.

Jane brushes the cards aside. “I think it’s time for my questions. Tell me about the Still Lord.”

“Straight to business, then?” Despite the dramatic loss, the Pasha seems quite relaxed. He pours wine from a brass flagon, filling two jeweled goblets; none of these things were on the table a moment ago. He slides a goblet over to Jane. “I would have thought you’d have other questions. What is this space we’re sitting in now? What are the full powers of my wand? Who, for that matter, am I?”

All good questions, Jane thinks. She’s not worried about the stranger poisoning her, and she picks up the goblet; the wine is dark and warm, mulled with unfamiliar spices. “One thing at a time. My little town seems to be in danger, and I want to know more about the threat. Tell me about the Still Lord.”

The Pasha sips his wine, and for a moment Jane spies a crack in his cool demeanor. Was he hoping I’d change my mind? Finally he sets down the glass.

“The one you call the Still Lord is known more widely as Orlaask, the Voice in the Stone. It is one of the daelkyr—a power out of Xoriat, a force that shatters the laws of your natural world and transforms all that it touches. It gives life to stone and turns the living to stone. When Orlaask came to your world, it carved a citadel within the Graywall Mountains and massed its forces below the earth. It has left its mark on many pieces of the Gray Wall… and when your druids bound Orlassk within the world, they did so in that little town of yours. The altar that troubles you now, it is just one piece of Orlassk’s legacy. But the Still Lord is stirring, and its desires alone can break mortal minds. I don’t know what it wants or what it is planning, and I don’t want to know; it is not wise to study Xoriat too closely. But I can tell you that the altar you have found is an artifact of Orlassk, and that there are mortals around you who are following the words of the Voice in the Stone.”

“Who? Who’s working for this guy?”

The Pasha raises his hands in apology. “My dear, you overestimate my abilities. I may possess wit, charm, and wealth beyond measure, but I don’t know *everything*. You know the people of your town far better than I. But I know the daelkyr. Anything they focus their attention upon *changes*. I expect that there have always been those in this region who have heard the Voice in the Stone, people touched by psychic tendrils blinding reaching out from its prison. But when the altar was activated, it was a beacon drawing calling out to Orlassk. Now its gaze is on Threshold. I don’t know how many followers it has today, but there may well be more tomorrow.”

Jane frowns. “So you don’t know about Threshold, but you know about the altar.” She starts to say are you watching me but bites her tongue, knowing she only has one question left.

The Pasha takes a sip of his wine, jewels reflecting the flames of the everbright lanterns. “Oh, yes. There is power there. I felt it when the altar tasted its first soul in centuries, and it’s not bound to me. You can be sure others felt it as well.”

What others? Jane nearly asks. But she’s learned her lesson. Just as he didn’t know the identity of the cultists, the Pasha might not even know what other powers are out there; he may simply know that there are powers. But there’s one thing he surely does know. “So who are you, Pasha? What do you want with Threshold, and with me? What game are you *really* playing?”

“Oh, Jane. What is it you want to hear? That this is all part of some grand plot? That even my seeming mistakes are carefully scripted, pushing you toward my grand design? I’m not such a spider, obsessed with my web.” He stands from the table, growing taller as he does. The lanterns fade as all light is drawn to him. His clothes are formed of gold and flame, and his wide-brimmed hat has become a horned crown of brass and gold. “I am the Pasha Raqashtar of Gold Ash. I am wonder and glory. I embrace the winds of chance and follow where they lead, and all within my path must scatter or be consumed.”

Jane takes a slow sip of her wine. “And this glorious path just happened to lead you to the back room of the Crown. Where you lost at Thrones.”

The burning lord glares down at her. He raises his hands and flames rise up around him. A wave of heat washes over Jane, but she holds his gaze unflinchingly. And then it’s over. The lights, the fire, the heat—the Pasha is sitting across from her again, in his duster and wide-brimmed hat. He picks up his goblet. “What can I say? I like the Crown. I enjoy a good game and I’m willing to take a chance. And I’m always looking for someone who fortune favors.”

The Pasha sets a wand on the table. Jane’s hand drops to her side: it’s her wand, snatched away in the blink of an eye.

“I may not spin schemes that take centuries to unfold,” the Pasha says. “But I don’t risk anything I’m not willing to lose. This wand was crafted by Sar Saeran and infused with the essence of the Sea of Fire. But it must be seasoned by a mortal spirit. The person who wields it must have fire in her soul. I wagered the wand that night because I’m betting on you—betting that you have what it takes to temper the wand. And if I’ve placed a little side bet on you—involving a certain Dol Rani—well, that just adds a little spice to the game.”

Jane says nothing, considering this.

“I have no sinister plans for you,” The Pasha says. “But you are the die in motion, and I’m most interested to see how you fall. I will tell you this: that altar in the mountains is just a tool. It takes the life force of anyone killed upon it and feeds it back to those who touch it, transforming them in the image of the Still Lord. The altar itself has no greater function. But when that mortal used it for the first time in centuries, he drew the gaze of Orlassk to your town. You can bury the altar, but Orlassk is watching you now, and others have felt it. I am sure you’ll find good use for this wand in the days ahead.”

The Pasha pushes the wand back across the table and stands again. “And lest you think I forgot; you owe me a favor, Three Widow Jane, and I will be back to collect it. Until then, I promised you a gift of fire; and I always pay my debts.”

His burning eyes flare, and the light is blinding. Jane grits her teeth as fire seems to flow through her veins, agony passing through her body. In a moment it is over. The Pasha is gone, though he has left her the card table, the deck of cards, and two jeweled goblets. Though the pain is gone, Jane can still feel the fire lingering in her blood… power waiting to be unleashed.