An Aesthetic shows you to a small reading room.

Stories of Ansalon from the view of Murik.

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 large tome on the table in front of you.
You note the spine bears the word 'Murik' scribed in earth-colored yellow ink.

Author:    Murik          
Date:      Mon Nov  5 18:50:25 2007
Subject     The scent of blood, smoke and an ogre whelp.


As a small cub, Murik only remembered the smell of smoke and chanting as he
ran into the hills. His clan decimated by the Bluefists and all he knew was
what his Maji had told him last spring.

"Muri, you are small for an ogre whelp, but you are intelligent much as I
was" the Maji intoned. "These other brutes are good ogres, but they won't
lead unless it is through the swing of their axes little one..."

Murik nodded slowly and chewed upon a piece of jerky. "I know what you mean
Maji, but still it doesn't make the beatings hurt less..." he sulked.

The Maji chuckled and continued "Remember Muri, you always have your brain
and your legs, and there is not much honor being a dead runt ogre".

"I remember Maji, fight if it makes sense, run if it doesn't, live always"
the whelp recited with a bored breath.

Then the day of the end flashed back into his mind...

The screams of rage as the Bluefists came crushing through, axes swinging
bloody arcs as the gutteral rage painted the village in a wash of red. The
smell of rust, smoke and the sickly smell of roasting flesh.

"Run Muri!" the old ogre whispered through clenched teeth as he tossed his
little helper out of the way. "Take this" he grunted and shoved a pack into
the young ogres hands.

With that the Maji turned and barked words of strange sound, it seemed the
very air chilled and a massive explosion of frost lurched from his
outstretched hands. It was as if hell had frozen, and it's mouth spewed
forth a cloud of ice... the Bluefist that had been rushing in froze in place
and fell forward, his skin devoid of color, his eyes ice.

Murik turned and ran, leaving the sounds behind him as his mentor bade him.
He scarcely noticed the weight of the book in his pack, nor the burning in
his legs.

(That's it for now) - Murik.

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 868 books from Ansalon from before the great Cataclysm through today.'