Threshold Story Hour: Deven's Revelation (Patreon)

Hi Everyone! 

I'm in the process of uploading episode 15 of Threshold. The foundation of the story was established in a Story Hour that I ran on the Discord, and since I know that not everyone uses Discord I wanted to go ahead and post that story here. In the original Story Hour, patrons had the opportunity to steer the story at various points; I'm removing those and just presenting the final story. 

I am right in the midst of COVID and am pretty foggy, which has slowed down my progress on the current Dragonmark (Skyrates)—however, I am working on it and will finish it as soon as possible.  So with that being said...

This story takes place one week after The Haunting (Threshold episode 14). It will contain spoilers for that session and reference things that happened; you may want to experience that session or at least read the recap before proceeding.

Deven dreams of a perfect world. In his dreams, the people work together for the greater good. Everyone has a place and a purpose. In his dreams, he works alongside other Silent Knives as they identify and deal with threats to the empire. There is a joy in the camaraderie and the knowledge that his actions serve the greater good—the joy of *muut*, of acting in the service of the empire.

Over the last decade, his dreams have begun to change. Time and again, he finds his family with him in his dreams. He dreams of taking Jesra up the Green Mountain to look out across the empire, or of training Kala in the way of the silent step. When he first remembered these dreams, he asked Kala about her dreams, wondering if it was truly his daughter with him in the Uul Dhakaan; but so far she has never remembered, and Deven believes it’s just his memories and desires following him into sleep. But it makes him wonder. When he was a child, the Uul was his anchor. Now he’s not sure which dream has the stronger pull—his empire, or his family.

But this isn’t just any night. Deven expects a visitor in his dreams, an Uul’kala who may shed some light on a mystery he’s been pondering. As much as he delights in his dreams of his daughter and his wife, tonight Deven needs to be Sar’kaas of the Shaarat’khesh.

Waking in the morning, Deven quickly makes notes. He’s no chot’uul, and details of dreams can fade; he needs to remember what the uul’kala has told him. And… he needs to speak with Rolan and Ink.

“You have to try this new tal!” Ink says, stepping into the shop. Ecto—the tattooed flumph that glides across Ink’s skin—shivers slightly, suggesting don’t do it. “I’ve been experimenting with powdered sandfruit and I really think I’m onto something.”

Ink is happy to see his friend, but Deven can tell that Rolan is more cautious. There’s been tension between them since the business at the mine last week. Deven takes note that the former marshal has his sword—hardly unusual for Rolan—but that he’s also wearing his breastplate. Rolan’s ready for trouble.

“I’m afraid I already brewed the tal, my friend.” Deven gestures to the small table, with steaming cups and noon biscuits laid out. “Please, be seated.”

Most of Deven’s customers are taller than he is; the tea table is sized for humans, and Deven’s chair has a little extra height to place him on the same level as his guests. “Please,” he says. “You must have some of the lemon curd with the biscuits. I made them myself, and I’m not the baker Noon is.”

Rolan pauses with the biscuit halfway to his mouth, and stares at it for a few long seconds before taking a bite.

He suspects something, Deven thinks. I suppose it’s just as well that we’re having this talk.

“Things have been quiet since our unexpected visitor last week,” Deven says. “Nice to have a week without cultists, ghosts, or brigands.”

“It’s a shame about the mines, though,” Ink says, talking through a mouthful of noon. “So many wonders just out of reach.”

Rolan remains characteristically silent, watching Deven.

“Yes, well…” Deven sighs. “I think we may have made a mistake.”

“I’ve been thinking about the events of the past few weeks,” Deven says. “A group of unlikely heroes break the power of the Still Lord, making it possible to venture into the depths. We make a remarkable discovery, but we anger the spirits. The ancient leader—Hezra Tuulas—orders us to leave. We’re able to seal her in the mine, but we can never go down there again.”

Rolan nods. “You were there.”

“I was. But I wasn’t at that delightful dinner Ink’s aunt held not so long ago. You were, though. And you faced the ghost of a female hobgoblin. Do you remember her name?”

Rolan’s eyes widen, and he frowns, thinking. Deven speaks before he does.

“Our dear Sora keeps excellent notes. When I asked her, she told me that the spirit identified herself as Hezra Tuulas, the Voice of the Marhu—the ancient commander of this fortress.”

“It wasn’t the same woman,” Rolan said. “Her voice, her face—”

“Exactly. I think our recent encounter was a trick. A trick being played by someone who knew the history of the area… but who didn’t know that we’d already met Hezra Tuulas.”

“Some trick,” Ink says. “People died! I examined the bodies myself. What difference does it make, if the threat was real?”

“Because the threat may not have been as dire as it appeared. Yes, four people died at Stone Soup. And a few corpses rose in the Boneyard. But not all that many, if you consider; not teeming hordes of vengeful goblins.”

“That’s because Dhyrn stopped them,” Deven says. “He challenged the ghost, demanded they retreat to the mines.”

“So he did,” Deven says. “Lucky that worked. But something felt wrong. The ghost… her reactions didn’t feel natural, somehow. It was as if her responses were delayed.”

“You said yourself, she was a ghost,” Ink observes. “Why should her reactions be natural?”

“An excellent point, Master Narathun. It could be that as a spirit, she was slightly out of phase with our reality. Or it could be that she wasn’t a spirit at all. A skilled necromancer could have arrived with a group of shadows, animated a handful of corpses… and created the image of a ghost with a sophisticated illusion.”

“Dhyrn sensed the threat,” Rolan growls. “He led us to the Boneyard.”

“Yes, and we arrived just as the corpses began to rise. Quite convenient of them to wait for you to put on your armor.”

Rolan frowns. “What are you saying?”

“It’s simple,” Deven said. “Your friend Dhyrn betrayed you.”

Rolan pushes back his chair and stands up. “I know Dhyrn. I’ve seen him put his life on the line to protect innocents. And how is it you know for much about all this, tailor? What was it that you said to the ghost in the Boneyard? Dhyrn warned me not to trust you.”

Deven takes a sip of tal. “Please, Rolan, sit. Don’t let the tal grow cold.”

Rolan remains standing, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “What aren’t you telling us, Deven?”

Deven spreads his hands. “Fine, fine. You’re right. I haven’t told you everything about my past.” He considers. “How can I put this? My people have been on Khorvaire long before yours, Rolan. I’m part of an old family that has done its best to remember our history. Tragomir, your friend Z’tia; she’s from one of these families.”

Ink nods thoughtfully, but Rolan’s hand is still on his sword.

“My family takes its history seriously, just like yours; Rolan, I imagine you know more than most about Deneith dueling customs. So yes. I challenged the ghost with some old customs, knowing she would recognize them. I think the question you should be asking is how Dhyrn recognized what I was saying; was the hwyri you worked with an expert in goblin history?”

Rolan doesn’t blink. “Where’s your sword? I know blades, and that didn’t come from a Cannith forge. Who are you, Deven? What are you really doing here?”

Deven opens his mouth to say something clever… and stops. He reaches down to where his haversack sits under the table. Reaching into a side pocket, he slowly pulls out his rapier and sets it on the table. It’s a long, light blade with a single edge and a dull sheen.

Ink reaches out to touch the metal. “Is that… adamantine?”

Deven nods, his eyes still on Rolan. “My family appreciates weapons. As does yours, Rolan.”

“The world knows my family,” Rolan says. “I still haven’t heard of yours.”

“You know what Sharn and Threshold have in common, Rolan? They’re built on goblin bones. Malleon the Reaver, Breggan Firstking… and now, you’ve broken the damn world with your Mourning. Why would my family invite your attention?”

Ink nods slowly, but Rolan isn’t so easily deterred. “Why are you here? What are you hiding from us?”

Deven sighs and gestures back at his shop, at the bolts of cloth and the rack of clothing. “I’m a tailor, Rolan. I’m a husband and a father; I’ve got more invested in this town than you do. My family wants to know about anything I learn related to the history of our people. The Still Lord destroyed our empire. Of course they want to know if he’s stirring. But that’s all. In this town, I’m a tailor, and I’m just trying to protect my family.”

“How can I ever trust you?” Rolan says.

“Are you worried about Sora’s loyalty to her family, Rolan? How much do you know about Vael? Are you concerned about Bel’s loyalty to Cyre and the refugees? We all care about something—but we all care about this town. You and I, we’ve faced demon minotaurs. We fought side by side against the Still Lord and his cult. Last week, we fought what we thought was the ghost of Hezra Tuulas. Yes, I write letters to my family. But have I ever done anything to make you doubt my loyalty to this town?”

Rolan studies Deven closely, his dragonmark shimmering as he calls on his Sentinel’s intuition. “No. Not yet.” He slowly sits down. “But you can be sure I’ll be watching in the days to come.”

“Of course.”

“And I know Dhyrn. He’d never betray me. Besides which, he was dying.”

“My dear Rolan, I’m afraid it’s worse than that. Your friend Dhyrn was already dead.”

“What are you saying?”

“After that night, something was nagging me… something I’d read somewhere. So I sent a message to one of my aunts; the restless dead are a hobby of hers. She reminded me of a very rare and unusual form of ghoul… a creature called a maurezhi.”

Ink brightens at this. “Maurezhi… Maurezhi… Skin thieves?”

Deven is surprised. “Apparently I didn’t need to ask my aunt! Yes, the skin thieves. When a maurezhi kills someone, they can steal their appearance and their memories. But the disguise doesn’t last. Their flesh begins to rot.”

Rolan’s face is stone. “The curse.”

Deven nods. “The ‘curse’. Bel smelled the rot. He just lied about the cause.”

“So you’re saying…”

“I’m afraid I am. I’m sorry, Rolan, but I believe someone slew your friend and used his shape to fool you. Consider: he arrived just before the wail. He led us to the Boneyard just in time to face the undead. He convinced the spirit to accept his challenge. And then he performed a remarkable ritual, giving his own life to seal the ghost in the depths—disappearing into the mists below. How sad that we can never go down there again to learn what happened to him.”

“Who?” Rolan’s voice is deadly. “Who did this?”

“And why?” Ink asks. “This seems like a remarkable amount of work.”

“This is all conjecture,” Deven says. “But there’s another… family… of goblins with a talent for necromancy. You remember, just before Dhyrn showed up, Naarn told us that one of their group had gone missing.”

“The ‘silent knife’,” Rolan says.

“Yes. A scout. It seems that this foundry we found in the mine was considered to be quite important to the old empire. I asked Naarn, and he said that it was Jha’laza—the missing goblin—who urged them to destroy it rather than to let it fall into enemy hands. I believe that she slipped away and used some sort of tool to signal this family… the Keepers of Night.”

Ink shakes his head. “The survivors were petrified for thousands of years! How could any system she knew of still be functioning?”

“Normally I’d agree. But the Nasaar are undead. There may well be some among them who are thousands of years old, who could still be summoned with these ancient tools. I think that Jha’laza sent her signal and that the Nasaar assembled a small, elite team—this maurezhi, a necromancer, and the spectral dirge singer we actually fought in the mine—to respond.”

Rolan has yet to unclench his fists. “How did they find Dhyrn?”

“I don’t have all the answers, Rolan. I told you, this is a theory. It’s possible he was already on his way to see you when the Nasaar found him. Or maybe they’ve been watching the town; maybe they already had him as a prisoner, waiting for the moment they needed to use his form.”

Rolan closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, forcing down his anger and considering. “So. Dhyrn. A necromancer. The ghost singer. While Dhyrn comes to find me, the singer attacks Stone Soup and the necromancer captures the shadows of the dead. The necromancer goes and waits for us in the Boneyard and Dhyrn gets us there ‘just in time’ to deal with the rising dead. He ‘drives the spirit away’ by challenging it to fight us in the mines. When we get to the mines, we fight the singer while Dhyrn ‘performs the ritual’. And then Dhyrn jumps down the mine shaft, taking the ghost with him.”

“Correct, and the bottom of the shaft is hidden from view. It could be Dhyrn sacrificed himself… or it could be that the necromancer was waiting down below with *feather fall* at the ready.”

Rolan pierces Deven with his gaze. “So you think this—*thing*—that killed Dhyrn could still be down there in the mines?”

Deven nods. “I do. There’s only one more test I can think to perform, and that’s to have you study the seal that ‘Dhyrn’ carved into the stone. If I’m right about all of this, it’s not actually any sort of ward. Though I’d be careful; it could be that it’s actually an *alarm* or something designed to guard against us.”

Rolan stands, and his hand is back on his sword. “So let’s rally our allies. I’m going down there.”

“I’m not sure that’s wise,” Deven says. “A week ago, there may have only been three of them. But by now… I expect that they’ve used subterranean passages to reinforce the foundry.”

“But *why*?” Ink says. “I still missing the point.”

“I told you. The byeshk foundry is an important asset. I expect that they plan to return it to operation—having convinced all you gath’dar on the surface to stay away.”

“So they want war,” Rolan says.

“Quite the opposite. I think they did all of this to prevent war.”

“They killed five people.”

“I know,” Deven says, raising his hands. “And it worked. Until today, you were prepared to leave the mines alone. Many more people could die if we face the Nasaar in open battle. I think they’re trying to avoid that, and to avoid conflict with Breland. The simple fact is that the best thing we can do may very well be to leave them alone.”

“Good people died,” Rolan says. “We can’t just ignore this.”

“More good people could die if we start a war,” Deven replies.

“I know. We need to take this to Constable. To the Count. We can’t just decide the fate of the town ourselves.”

If you made an excellent Perception roll, you just might hear Ink grumble It’s worked out fine so far. But if Rolan hears this, he chooses to ignore it.

“I’ll be right there,” Deven says. “I need to close up the shop.”

And that's how it ended... though the patrons decided that Deven did immediately notify the Khesh'dar about this new development! Session 15 begins mere moments after this conversation.