The Great Library of Palanthas
An Aesthetic shows you to a small reading room.
Stories of Ansalon from the view of Baphomael.
A little gully dwarf runs by and says 'Wordwrap is at 80. You change? 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 bluish black leather-bound book on the table in front of you.
You note the spine bears the word 'Baphomael' scribed in deep green ink.
Author: Baphomael Date: Sat Sep 16 17:46:04 2017 Subject Don't Go in the Tall Grass
Storms rolled in from the mountains, their purpling sheets of clouds stretching over the vast plains of Abanasinia. The wind had a dampness to it as tall stalks of grass moved in heavy unison. Baphomael turned his head toward the sound of the wind, sniffing on it the ozone tang of thunder and lightning. It had struck earlier elsewhere, and would soon be here. The hobgoblin turned his attention back to his leggings, re- fastening them as he sat on a broad stone outcropping over the narrow river. He closed his foam-green eyes, concentrating on the sounds of the river and the movement of the grass, as his hunter's instincts told him to. When his people had left him for dead in Darken Wood all those years ago, they never expected him survive. He was weak, they said. Talked too much, thought too much. At first, he'd despaired...until the storm and the lightning and the strike that had driven him to inspiration in the power of the gods of might. The forest had rebirthed him. Baphomael stood from the river as a barbarous grin split his face. He'd spied tracks in the mud - wide ones, indicating a fat and heavy doe. Plenty of food. His hand gripped the strong bow stave. He knew there was no need to test the pull of it, but he also knew that if he was going to shoot, it would need to be soon. The rain would foul the string and composite wychelm. Another noise caught the hobgoblin's attention. There, off to the east - another set of tracks. Not deer, but the soft, moccasin-wraped steps of a man. Baphomael grinned again. The young hunters of the Plainsmen would wander here, sometimes, on trails of their own - lads of fourteen or fifteen summers who were ready to prove their mettle on the hunt. If he was lucky, the hobgoblin knew, perhaps he could help the hunter become the prey. Baphomael knocked a long, black arrow and stalked on.
Rabbit meat sizzled as the flames of Baphomael's campfire reached up to lick the roasting haunch. The animal had died quickly, and something in his goblinoid nature was disappointed by that. Still, food was food. He sat back, looking up at the night sky. Quiet nights were time for reflecting on times past. [One Year Prior] Baphomael had been high up in a tree when it had happened, a bolt of lightning from a clear sky. It had torn through the crown of the old oak, striking him and sending him tumbling to the forest floor. His mind, somewhere in the fog and haze, thought back to stories the Old Timers of his tribe had told of similar strikes, but he never thought to see one. Or feel it. The rest of the war party gathered around him, their voices distant and gauzy. They were goblins, and he was leader, as nature had intended. Now, though, they'd seen the hobogoblin hit by lightning and fall from a tree. Was he dead? Should they try to help him? Could they take his stuff? His vision swam and finally returned to him. Baphomael sat up, reaching up to his head. His hand came back bloody. "You dead?" a goblin asked, its large eyes curious and fearful. Baphomael snarled at the creature. "Do I look dead, fool?" The sound of his own voice surprised him. It was the same voice he'd had since birth, obviously, but the tone had an underpinning of cunning and malice that had never existed there before. The other members of the war party noticed it, too, taking a half-step back. Baphomael stood, half his face coated in black-red blood. "Gather your weapons. To my side." His voice held a menacing air of quiet command, and the other smaller goblins glanced uneasily back and forth among themselves. "Why he talk like dat?" one of them asked, raising a crude spear. "Sumptin' wrong wit him!" Baphomael shifted his stance, sensing the coming violence in the tiny hairs on the back of his neck. "Yes...something is *wrong* with me," he quietly snarled. "I am leading a band of morons. Tablescraps when I deserve the full meal." His own spear took the goblin in the throat, and twin daggers were in his hands just as the strike had time to register in the brains of the others. "Halp! Halp!" they screamed. "Dis one gone crazy!" The element of surprise, combined with his superior size and strength made quick work of the goblins. Baphomael rested on his knees for many long minutes, looking up through the boughs of the trees and to the still-blue sky. It was easy to see, now. The bolt had been a test. He'd survived, and now had a new path to walk. There was power to be his...if he could continue to survive.
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
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