The Great Library of Palanthas

An Aesthetic shows you to a small reading room.

Stories of Ansalon from the view of Gethsemane.

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 'Gethsemane' scribed in faded yellow ink.



Author:  Gethsemane
Date    Mon Dec 31 04:28:18 2001


Subject  Gethsemane and Zuzanah Detraehl, from the Shadow (1)



Born to a spring tryst between a young Qualinesti and a younger Human maiden,
Gethsemane and Zuzanah Detraehl were far from the product of a loving
environment.

Their father left them not long after conception, never knowing, and to this
day not knowing, of their existence.  Their mother went through mate after
mate after abuse after abuse, and eventually the twins grew tired of it.

They left their home in the crossroads of Jelek to travel to the capital of
Neraka.

Zuzanah found work as an errand girl to an ailing dark mage, bringing his
attention to the twins.  He agreed to teach them the paths of magic, if only
to keep them from falling into the wrong hands.  Unfortunately, the dark mage
no longer had the health of his youth, and they had learned on the basics of
the craft under his tuteledge.

Gethsemane Detraehl is now a dusky-skinned boy of 17, with empty eyes, and
hair that seems to trap the starry sky within it.  He's as tall as some
barbarians, but slight of build and almost sickly.  The mage always resisted
resisted the 'just another drone' mentality, and has nearly killed party
members for referring to him simply as 'mage'.  His individuality is sacred as
are his traditions what few remain.  Gethsemane has no compassion, some would
go so far as to say no soul, and no love for anything save for his craft.

The sole exception to that rule is his sister, Zuzanah.  He values her as
merchants value their steel, and will violently protect her from anything he
would view as unjust harm.  Zuzanah equals her brother in height, but here the
similarities end.  While she is thin, her body is well toned, and it it is
apparent that she is the more athletic of the two.  Her skin is pale white in
comparison to her sibling, and her eyes seem to glow behind her black hood, a
brilliant mix of green, blue, and gold.  Her smile is charismatic She could
easily be mistaken for an elven princess, if not for her black robes.

Her hair is light blond, almost white, and shines with any light that touches
touches it.  She wears it in a long braid that hangs over her shoulder, down
to her waist.  Many a man has mistaken Zuzanah for easy prey, and they have
have met the consequences. While she looks harmless enough, her temper has
been known to be deadly.  The only thing Zuz finds dear in her life is her
brother, and even so, he feels her wrath when the wrong words are spoken.
Gethsemane's protective nature clashes with her persistence of independence,
and has complicated many situations.  Even so, she would never leave his side,
and has been at that side for their entire 17 years.

Alone in Neraka, with nothing but what their former master left them, the
twins found an old friend from their childhood... adventure.  They wandered
desert wastelands, encountered Chromatic Dragons, and lived through at least
ten different types of poisoning.  That was the only beginning...


'Getshemane of the Shadow, night of storms' to follow...



Author:  Gethsemane
Date    Fri Jan  4 11:05:06 2002


Subject  Gethsemane of the Shadow, Night of the Storm (2)



It was raining that day, and the figure in black looked out of his window.

Sheets of rain slammed into the cobbled streets of Sanction below, playing a
never-ending rhythm.  He closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and
then looked down at the leather-bound book before him.  He stood slowly, and
opened the pane of the window.  Looking out, he saw seasoned troopers drilling
new recruits in the rain.

Hearing a knock at his door, he turned.  He opened it widely, peering left and
right.  Nothing greeted him.  A loud crack of thunder echoed through the city
streets, rattling window.  Gethsemane gathered his traveling gear, and for no
reason more explainable than to find out what that bolt hit.

He took his favored warpony from the stables, saddled it himself, and rode out
into the streets of Neraka alone.  Taking the slow wisps of smoke smoke barely
visible through the rain as his compass, he skirted around troopers and street
urchins alike.  Not ten minutes out of Neraka, and he already felt
waterlogged.  The rain fell hard enough for bruises to form underneath them. 
The roar of the raindrops steadily increased as the pony slipped and skittered
its way along the muddy trail.

Gethsemane found what he was looking for... what that insane urge led him to
through a torrential downpour.  In the middle of the wilderlands amid amid mud
and brambles, towered what was once a beautiful and eternal oak.  Now age,
violence, and weather had contorted it into a mangled piece of tortured wood.

"Tis a pity, my sister was not here to see this..." at that moment the crack
of a small piece of hidden timber from behind him alerted the dark mage of
danger.

He spun his mount around only to catch two crossbow bolts.  Gathering energy
energy around him, he shouted into the wind, "Come out into the open, Filth! 
Die like the insect you are!"  The lightning veritably crackled around him,
and his long starred hair flew behind him in the winds.  At a bit of motion he
released it all in a surge of lightning that splintered a tree and
disintegrated a highwayman.

With a sigh and a grimace, the mage began dislodging the bolts stuck in his
shoulder and thigh.  Feeling a prickly feeling on his neck, he turned on his
mount to witness his death.  An archer wearing black leather stood at the edge
of the small clearing.  His bow was leveled at the mages chest, an arrow with
a disturbingly black barbed head nocked and ready.  "Tis a pity, my sister was
not here to see this..." and at that moment a look of shocked resignation
registered on the archers face. He fell to his knees, then on his face...

bowstring held still in death.  Gethsemane nodded to himself, and after
finishing the grisly task of removing the bolts, walked over to inspect the
body of the fallen archer.

He found the obligatory silvers, a gold or two, but stuck in the back of the
archer was a small elongated dagger.  Black flames rippled along the length of
the blade, and it seemed to suck in what little light was there in the night.

Etched in Elven along the blade in light blue read, 'Thanasiao es Cynlurai,
Cynlurai Cynlurai es Thanasiao'.  "Death is Beauty, Beauty is death... A
lesson hard learned...

and a mystery unsolved." The mage glanced to whatever hidden figure might be
beyond the woodline, watching over him.  He then mounted his pony, and lost
consciousness as he let it lead him back home to Sanction.



Author:  Gethsemane
Date    Tue Feb 19 11:56:32 2002


Subject  Peace... of a sorts



The futile sounds of sand hurling itself against the wind resound into the
depths of the earth.  Several floating lights illuminate the chamber, but they
flicker, and sometimes dim into nothingness. Three huge granite cisterns cast
dancing shadows throughout the huge chamber.

The chamber itself is easily a hundred feet tall, and sixty feet in diameter. 
Echoes from the raging sandstorm above dance along glass walls.

Gethsemane sits alone in his chamber letting his new homeland serenade him to
sleep. He lays his head against the travel-worn pack that has been his pillow
for close to a month now.  The smooth finish fo the smoky glass that is his
bed shimmers in the half-light.  The mage ignores the shadows, the annoyingly
hard bed, and the lack of "human" contact.  Tiroth comes and goes... but
without much conversation.  He brings with him darker things than shadows:
plague, disease, and demons from the abyss.  The occasional acolyte will
follow Tiroth through the gates that this mage opens, but they talk little and
respect Gethsemane for the power that he is.

Gethsemane finds his comfort in his shadows.  The shadows flitting so
capriciously along the walls aren't merely products of light and cistern.

They are living , thinking creatures, to a degree at least.  Their hard chill
caresses bring warmth and comfort to the mage as he tries to sleep.  These
enemies of life and light and darkness are his friends.

The "Lord of Shadows" lies awake, listening to the whispers of his family, and
the echoes of his homeland.  Sometimes... in the middle of the night, when
only those two sounds are present, the world slips away from him.

His life bleeds into his cold glass floor/bed until he, too, is a shadow.

Those nights, like this one, Gethsemane finds contentment and real
happiness...

but those moments are fleeting, and too few and far between.

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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