An Aesthetic shows you to a small reading room.

Stories of Ansalon from the view of Zeboim.

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 heavy platinum-covered book on the table in front of you.
You note the spine bears the word 'Zeboim' scribed in burnt red ink.

Author:           Zeboim
Date    Tue Mar 28 15:28:34 2006
Subject  The start of a very bad day.


Eyes turn up to the sky as shadows fall across the land.  Mothers of
children call out of windows for children to come inside.  Where the sun
was shining, it is now a greenish-grey color.  Soon rain falls roughly,
small hail stones fall.  People run into homes trying to not get wet. 
Old timers can be heard saying they hav'ent seen a storm like this in
sometime. Lightning licks the tops of trees, people pray that a fire
will not start. Its looking like a start of a very bad day.....
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ooc: Write stories, rp the storm and we shall see what happens next.

Author:    Zeboim         
Date:      Fri Aug 27 12:16:54 2010
Subject     And the Docks fell Ill. Palanthas

Month of Spring Rain, Day of Winged Trade. Palanthas Docks.

The darkest part of the night is gone. The fishermen ready their tools for
the long day ahead. Merchants run around with goods brought from distant
lands, readying themselves for a day of sales. Today is a good day to trade.
Shinare smiles on most of them as their pockets are filled with money. 

A dim light can be seen to the west. The sun finally arises from its
slumber. Sails are brought to life with the warm colors that shine upon
them.

Suddently, a chill runs through the fishermen's spines. No cloud can be seen
at the sky, but there is a deep sense of bad weather comming. The air is
stale and there is a deep silence throughtout the docks. Everyone is
suddenly standing still, waiting for something that they cannot explain.

A Strong gust of Wind hits the docks and awakes the sails from their
torpor. Paper and leaves fly about and carry with them dust and mist. As
everyone shelters their eyes from the dust, they listen more intently to the
howls in the wind. A fowl voice seems to whisper in it, but no one can
really make out the words. Canvas are ripped from their stands, fruits and
fish seem to have been blown by the wind. Chaos can be seen througout the
docks. 

The wind dies and all that is left is the misery of a small tempest. Sailors
and Merchants alike stare at their spoiled goods. Everyone seems now too
busy picking up the pieces that no one takes a second to look at the
horizon.

As minutes pass, a strange smell can be perceived. Those attentive enought
can see some strange vivid green color arrising to the surface of the water.
In a matter of minutes, the whole coast is colored in a bright green color. 
 

Author:    Zeboim         
Date:      Sun Aug 23 18:55:17 2015
Subject     Black Clouds and Blacker Sails Part I



Young Bartholomew Cassidy struggled to stifle the yawn that caused his thin
shoulder to shuddered as he drew in his breath. Using his free hand, he
vigorously rubbed his face, trying in vain to massage feeling back into his
cheeks. He did, however, manage to finally wipe the sleep from his eyes.
Thank the gods, I can see again. Just in time to light these miserable
lanterns. He adjusted his hat and shrugged his long lamplighters rod into a
more comfortable position on his shoulder, thankful for the warmth of his
thick guild cassock.

Young Bart was lagging behind again, it took until just before rising light
to light his way to the harbors. He envied the older guild lamplighters who
were assigned duties as the sun set If could be worse,  Young Bart thought
to himself, I could be a fisherman, smelling like that shit all day.. He
scanned against the dark, looking for any sailors on the docks where he
ended his route every morning. But no boats were launching this early, they
would wait just a little longer. None of the ramshackle fishing boats would
risk navigating by stars, even if they knew how. 

He strode quickly across the creaking wooden boards, eager to finish his
work and listening to the lap of the waves against the pier. Poor Young Bart
was never a brave lad, and he was particularly wary of the dark and frigid
ocean below him. Old Bart had been fond of the sea, though he was most fond
of the drink in his later days but Young Bart never inherited his fathers
joy, preferring the solid land to the unpredictable temper of the waves. And
when Old Bart failed to return home after a difficult and treacherous storm,
Young Bart never seemed to forgive the harbor.

The fog was rolling thick, the few candles that were lit at the entrance of
the harbor did little to illuminate the young mans way. He disliked these
duties the most, he saw little point in maintaining the candles that never
took. But old Master Jaynce always seemed to know when Young Bart forgot to
light them, so the thin boy sighed and carried on. 

As Young Bart neared the edge of the pier, he noticed the faint light of the
candle, flickering weakly in the mist. It wavered and danced, blinking in
and out on the verge of death. Young Bart frowned, muttering to himself That
light cant still be lit. It should have gone out ages ago. He hurried to the
furthest post and was surprised to find a full, thick candle set in the
lantern. It was squat and ugly, and burned with a certain spice

Young Bart managed to guide his pole into the lantern and fetch the strange
candle without too much difficulty. He made a face, the candle felt oily and
strangely heavy in his hand Taking it in both hands, he felt deep gouges
marring one side of the candle. He brought his own lantern closer to his
face and squinted against the wavering light. A crude skull, crossed with
twin bones scarred the candle. Young Bart tightened, his fingers deforming
the candle in his hand, and his heart skipped a beat. 

A rough voice growled behind him, sounding like slow gravel ground together.
The hairs on the back of Young Barts neck stood up. Hello there boy, thank
you for finding my candle. And then the voice chortled wickedly. 

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