The Great Library of Palanthas

An Aesthetic shows you to a small reading room.

Stories of Ansalon from the view of Bathrak.

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 worn folio on the table in front of you.
You note the spine bears the word 'Bathrak' scribed in rich green ink.


Author:    Bathrak        
Date:      Tue Oct 31 14:49:37 2017
Subject     HSQ2017 - Bathrak's Bumblings

What few, coarse have have taken root on the back of your neck stand on end. Years of fighting, killing and pillaging have honed that natural sense of danger, but nothing prepared you for this. The Commander, or so the warmage ogre leader of your den has taken to calling himself, heard reports and received magical scrying on this cave, but seemingly nothing could penetrate the muck and the ooze. Not only looking for a way to prove yourself, but also being one of the few ogres that The Commander didn't see as a threat, you were chosen to personally see to the scouting and likely eradiacation of whatever this cave hid. Taking four goblins and a hob as your lackeys, you descend into the tunnel. Deeper. The tunnel slowly declines into the ground, and remarkably remains large enough to continue fitting your flabby ogre body. The hardest part of the journey, so far, has been -not- eating the petulant little goblins as they continuously scamper off thinking they've found some long lost treasure from the Cataclysm. The hob has kept pace rather well, though any critter with a heartbeat sends him into a blind rage, and he has darted off out of sight at least a handful of times. Cramped. The tunnel has started thinning out, and the rocky ground has turned into a wet, mushy padding. The walls exude an intermittent green ooze, like a dying plant and smelling little better. At least this is comfortable for you. Despite the smaller size of the tunnel, the smell and feel is almost like home. As the walls narrow further, the green slime seems to allow for easier, lubricated passage. Two of the goblins tried to eat it, and have been left behind. Bored and bickering, the last of the two goblins start fight, after argument, after little squabble. You can see in the Hob's eyes that even he is debating tearing off one of their arms just to beat them into submission. How far does this tunnel go? It has been at least half the day, and you've missed four good meals. The tunnel cramps further, and it begins to feel as though you're forcing a spear into a keyhole. Ahead the tunnel ceases becoming narrow, and even with your darklight vision, the tunnel seems to end. Entirely. The last of the two goblins, and the hobgoblin, press ahead while you are forced to lean into the decline and hope the oozing walls provide enough lubrication to slip though... *pop*. Like a forest bear strugglign after honey, your form almost simultaneously becomes stuck, and relieves itself through the end of the tunnel, hitting a smooth stone floor with a loud thud. You can't see the goblins anymore, but even more disturbing is that you can't hear them, either. The hob, you hear just fine, though mostly it is the groaning and popping of a dead body being crushed by the immense weight of an ogre. You're alone, and you can't even tell where you plopped out of the wall. Rummaging around for a long time, you strike flint to steel, and your oily torch gags to life. Even with its yellow-orange gaze, all you can see is darkness on all sides. A few lumber steps to the left, you can see a wall, dripping and oozing with the same green lubricant as the tunnel but thick, at least two ogre-fingers thick and almost pulsing. The three hairs on your neck tingle again. Turning around with a gagging torch in one hand, and your broken halberd raised and ready to strike, your eyes settle onto more vast nothingness. You look up, you look back to the wall, you turn around again. Nothing. The hairs still tingle, and you can hear something. A chanting, maybe? No, a chant would be harmonious. This was the sound of a hundred voices, all talking over one another in the most irritating uproar you've heard since that village in the Khalkists thought a battle cry would frighten you. Those were enemies you could see. You could smell them, and you could taste their blood. Here there is nothing but darkness, ooze, and rampant chattering of unseen voices. Clapping your hands to your ears, you lumber away from the wall but the sounds become crazed and heightened. The sound has begun to fill your ears, your head, your mouth and even your nose. Plopping down on the ground, plant your head to the ground as if to block out the screams, when something cold and moist boops you on the nose. Opening your eyes, you see nothing, until you look further down. A ragged gully-dwarf female with hair in all the colors of refuse looks up at you, wearing a lopsided grin and not much else. Holding up a rat-skull bucket, she says "Trick or Treat Big Bad Bathrak!" You've stumbled into a Gully-hole, with no noticeable way out. The Commander seems to have gotten a laugh at your expense, but you have one way out. Closing your eyes tight, you whisper a prayer to the Lord of Bones, giving up on life in the midst of being stuck in Gully-town forever. Chemosh has forsaken you.

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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