The Great Library of Palanthas

An Aesthetic shows you to a small reading room.

Stories of Ansalon from the view of Attilas.

A little gully dwarf runs by and says 'Wordwrap Off 65 80.'
The gully continues 'Eyes hurt? Turn Color OFF!! (regular story dates)

Astinus says 'Enter the main library here to view only the author list.'
Astinus gently places a private journal on the table in front of you.
You note the spine bears the word 'Attilas' scribed in brown ink.


Author:    Attilas        
Date:      Sat Oct 17 23:06:40 2015
Subject     The Statue

Arl was a pathetic man. A shell of who he once was. A blacksmith by trade, he had angered the wrong Lord Knight. One of his swords had broken in combat and cost the Knight a spear to the leg. The Knight took the smiths left arm to the elbow, making sure he could not forge anything faulty again. A broken man, Arl took to begging. It had been three long winters before he heard a story from a passerby in faded yellow robes. It was said that there was a temple in cave, near the Vingaard river. If you made a pilgrimage to this temple and placed your hand within the statue there, it would restore a broken soul. Desperate for the tiniest bit of hope, Arl sold his meagre possessions and bought passage on a boat to Kalaman. It was an easy journey south along the Vingaard river. A poor cripple is worth nothing to anyone passing by. Unfortunately it also meant that Arl had run out of food ten days ago. Looking to the skies, he fell to his knees and wept, for that mattered no more. Tears of joy, that he had reached his goal. Yet there were tears of anguish as well, although he did not realize why. His desperation blinded him to the signs. The smell of rotting flesh. The walls alive with rats. The cloying smoke rising from brass censers. He did not hear the buzz of ten thousand flies. Arl did not even notice the maggot filled bread or rancid meat when the priest in pallid yellow robes provided them. As he devoured the food, all he could see through wet eyes was his salvation in the form of a large armored statue adorned in bronze. He looked to the priest, who nodded and gestured towards the tower of metal. It was nearly 7 feet tall, made of corroded iron. Smoke bellowed from incense in a censor around its neck. Inverted axes were painted on the pauldrons, and a skull circled in tarnished brass adorned its chest. Its right hand rested on the pommel of a bronze sword. A closed helm was partially shrouded behind a grey hood. Arl staggered up to the statue and fell to his knees, frozen so close to his journey's end. For long moments, he could not move. When the priest finally went to check on him, Arl shuddedered at his touch. Slowly he stood with the priests aid. Arl saw the hole in the side of the statue. The iron of the armor had rusted away. Swallowing, he reached forward with his last arm. It was far too dark to see how deep the hole was. He reached in, and it was far shallower than it seemed from the outside. He noticed the warmth and slight softness, but he did not realize what it meant. Resentment clouded his mind. Fear. Regret. He looked at the yellow robed priest, who only looked back. Before he could speak, a groan echoed in the cavern. The groan of metal against metal. He instictively tried to pull his hand back, but found that he couldn't. Looking back at the statue, Arl saw that it's gauntlet was around his only arm. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound escaped. The towering horror's other arm reached out and grabbed him by the throat and lifted him to it's face. Arl could see dull, jaundiced eyes in the recesses of the helmet. After that, he saw darkness. Suddenly, he was somewhere else. On a barren hill, and in front of him was a bronze tower, standing at the edge of everything. As soon as he took a step, he was at the tower. A tall man stood in the doorway. And Arl knew, somehow he knew it was the statue. The man smiled benevolently at Arl. 'It is good you had the strength to make the journey. So many fail in the face of hardship.' Arl looked hopefully at the man. 'You can make me whole again?' The man turned away and beckoned to Arl. 'Come, you must see the Master.' Arl looked at the man briefly, but followed him in. 'Who are you...what are you?' The walked up seemingly endless flights of stairs. 'I am called Attilas, and I am ostiary here at the Tower. My vessel waits along with yours.' They came to a large, circular room. The priest beckoned towards the entrance. Arl took a step in and was abruptly in the middle of the room. He looked towards the entrance and saw it closed and barred. Looking around the room his eyes arrived at a bronze throne he was sure hadn't been there before. Before Arl's mind could register confusion, his eyes rolled back and he collapsed. Arl awoke at the feet of Attilas on the floor of the temple. No words would be exchanged. He looked down and saw he was wearing the same pallid yellow robes as the priest. Arl had been shown the way, learned that the strong must suffer. And through that suffering they will find even greater strength. He looked at the hand that had touched Attilas through the armor. It was covered in oozing pustules. He rubbed that hand over the stump of his left arm. Maggots burst from the scar tissue. Flies began circling the stump. Blood and pus leaked but he felt no pain, only joy. He smiled, and began his journey home.

The Storytellers of Ansalon, The DragonLance MUD

Astinus points to the massive wall of books behind him and bids you to make a selection.


Authors: All|A|B|C|D|E|F|G|H|I|J|K|L|M|N|O|P|Q|R|S|T|U|V|W|X|Y|Z

Astinus sighs as he recants 'We saved 803 books from Ansalon from before the great Cataclysm through today.'
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